Black Horizon
by Jerrath92
Summary: Enemies are easier to make when only one person matters and anyone who isn't Merle's little brother can go to hell. Leaving the safety of Woodbury exposes Milton to dangers he can't comprehend. By choosing the prison, Andrea has signed her own death sentence. Defenses are crumbling around Daryl. There are enemies on both sides of the wall. Gore, lang, violence. Please review!
1. Chapter 1: Waiting Game

_**I have not gotten the chance to watch any of Season 4 yet and I think that's largely due to the fact that I am still grieving over my favorite character's real death this time in Season 3. For those of you who've read any of my stories before, you know that Merle is the man and that he is normally accompanied by Daryl, Andrea, Dale, and Jim. I have a knack for choosing to love characters that die. Anyway, I'm picking up this story nearly at the end of "This Sorrowful Life", which is the episode where Merle redeemed himself, but this time, everything's happening MY way. I don't know who any of you are, but if you've ventured this far into FanFiction and landed on a Merle fic, I already know you're awesome! I appreciate reviews, suggestions, criticisms, and comments because they help me grow as a writer. **_

_**And as a little side note, I know I'm just asking for trouble in starting this story less than a week before my college classes resume, but I will try to update regularly and I'd like to thank you beforehand for your patience. **_

**MERLE:**

_Shit!_

The kid couldn't have waited _one second_ to step right in front of the Governor? Merle had the shot lined up perfectly and would never have a better opportunity to put the bastard down while the latter was distracted and that damn kid had to walk right into his scope's eyesight. Now Merle had not only killed a teenage boy coerced into a man's fight, but he had missed his one shot and alerted the enemy to his presence in the warehouse.

_Thanks a lot, kid_, he thought in annoyance, preparing to step back from the window. Just then his peripheral vision picked up movement on his right and he drew his maimed appendage back just in time so that the biter's teeth clamped down on the metal that replaced his hand. Dropping his M4A1, he drew his arm back and then sliced the duct taped blade at the end of the attachment at the biter, ripping a long and ugly purplish-grey wound in its chin. The force of his attack knocked the biter back a few feet and Merle came at it again, slashing and going in for the final stab. He slammed the walking corpse into the door and thrust the blade into its forehead. The door gave way under his weight, but after taking an ungainly step, Merle was able to keep his feet as the biter fell through, throwing the door wide open.

Only Merle's military instincts saved him as he went into a dive to avoid the bullets aimed at him from the outside. He scooped up his fallen weapon and made a mad dash for the back door that he had originally come through. Crashes, curses, and more gunfire followed him out in his sprint to safety, though exactly where safety was at this point, he didn't know, nor did he care. He just wanted to put as much distance as he could between himself and the group of heavily armed and severely pissed off men hot on his tail.

In the back of his mind all he could think was _fail, fail, FAIL_, but then he reminded himself that he had taken out quite a few of the Governor's cronies and the biters had gotten a few as well. That had to count for something.

_Damn kid._

As he cut through the overgrown grass surrounding the warehouse and fled into the thicket he began to think that either he was invincible to gunfire, or the men shooting at him were the worst aimers in the world (he liked to think the former, but knew that was bullshit). He needed a way to shake his pursuers—and fast, otherwise…he didn't want to think about otherwise. Otherwise was not an option for him, not since he found out Daryl was alive.

Since discovering his brother in the arena battle, Merle made a promise to himself to not lose sight of his little brother again. Siding with Daryl against Woodbury, siding with Daryl with the group at the prison, it had all been to keep Daryl close. But in turning his back on Woodbury (and making even more unnecessary enemies in the process) Merle had realized how utterly and blindly _wrong_ he had been in throwing in his lot with the Governor in the first place. Most of the people in that town weren't half-bad, but they desperately followed a strong leader, which was what the Governor was and that was how Merle got thrown out in the first place. They all hated him now. Since he was the only person in the prison group that Woodbury knew by name and face, he was Public Enemy Number One. With the exception of Andrea and perhaps Milton if either of them were still alive, no one would vouch for Merle if he found himself a prisoner of war.

That wasn't going to happen, though. From the start of this crazy-ass plan, Merle did not expect to come out of this alive, but now that he had gotten out of the ambush, he sure as hell wasn't going to sit around twiddling his one thumb and waiting for the good people of Woodbury to find him. Now he had a way out and he was taking it.

Panting and feeling a stitch grow in his side, he tripped over an overgrown tree root and face planted on the forest floor, kissing dead leaves and mud as he heard bullets whiz by overhead. He rolled sideways and took up temporary refuge behind a thick birch tree. By the sound of their footfalls, whoever was following him slowed down since he was now in a position to hold his ground and return fire and they were most likely just waiting for him to poke his head out from around the tree.

"Give it up, Merle," called the voice of Martinez. That sleazy little punk had the gall to taunt him?

Glancing around for a way out and thinking fast, Merle shouted, "Hey, Martinez, guess what? Fuck you!" He aimed from the side of the birch his followers probably least expected him to appear from: the side that would make it awkward for one-handed Merle to shoot from. He saw the shapes of four men, but didn't spare a moment to focus on any of their faces as he fired off two shots in their direction to make them scurry for cover and then he put his eye to the scope and took out one man by the base of his skull.

Three. Yeah, he could handle three.

Wooden shrapnel went flying everywhere as the remaining men peppered his hideout in gunfire and Merle hugged his arms in close to his sides to protect them as he ducked back behind his shield.

He couldn't handle three.

Breaking right at an angle and dodging around in an uneven pattern, he ran for it. Again. He had nearly scaled the top of a hill when the bullet took him through the hip. He let out a gasp and lost his footing, tumbling head over heels down the other side but trying desperately to hold on to his M4A1. When he finally slowed down by digging his heels into the ground, he pressed his forearm over his wound, which did absolutely nothing to stem the flow. He had no time to waste worrying about how bad his wound actually was because he could hear the three thugs coming up over the hill behind him. Having come to a halt on his back, he now flipped onto his stomach and positioned himself to snipe with the vibration of hurried footsteps reaching him through the ground.

_C'mon, c'mon, you bastards._

The first head to come up over the hill had a duck bill hat on top of it and with an exhale to steady his aim, he put a bullet through the center of it. The head jerked back in recoil as soon as the second head cleared the hilltop and got the same treatment, this time through the left eye. Martinez did not follow, not that Merle had expected him to; Martinez knew Merle's style, but the two bodies with bullets through the skulls were obvious evidence of what awaited him. They were at a stalemate; Merle couldn't come back up over the hill to put Martinez down and Martinez didn't want to chance even reaching the peak after what happened to his two buddies.

But Martinez—however much of a little weaseling bitch—was smarter than most of the other brutes the Governor had affiliated himself with. No, Martinez would either gather up the others and return to finish Merle off, or wait for Merle to make the first move and take him out when he was least expecting it. Whichever it was, Merle could not go far leaking blood all over the place and leaving a trail.

He would have to wait and try to outlast the weasel, which meant he was in for a long, cold night. Settling in against the ground and trying to burrow in, Merle reloaded, swearing under his breath.

_Damn kid._


	2. Chapter 2: Doubts

**MILTON:**

He estimated that he had two hours, three at most until Phillip returned from the ambush. Milton felt a stab of sympathy for the people at the prison, especially the few he'd met who seemed like decent people much like many of his neighbors here in town. But what could he do for them that wouldn't make Phillip suspect him of betrayal? It didn't matter now, though, because what he was about to would get him killed if he stayed or cast out if he went with her.

Andrea. He knew she left, but she didn't make it far; he could tell that much when he saw Phillip drive the pickup up to the lab—a shed, really—where he kept all of his instruments of torture late last night. Whatever feelings the two of them had previously shared were now gone and if Milton knew Phillip for what he was now, Andrea was in for a worse death than the prison group—if she wasn't dead already. Milton felt a responsibility to her because he had exposed her to this dark side of Phillip which caused her to make a run for it. Her betrayal was the last straw for Phillip who held grudges until he satisfied his thirst for revenge and Andrea would die because of it.

That was not an option. Up until now all of Milton's experiments and guesswork had been fruitless and he felt that his existence in this apocalypse- was meaningless, but if all he could do was give this recklessly courageous woman a chance, he would do it.

No one would think it odd for him to be heading towards the shed, but some might raise an eyebrow if he had his pack of supplies with him, which meant he would have to take the back exit and hope that no one saw him. He wasn't a tactical thinker by any means, so his plan to escape with Andrea and head for the prison was not the best by means of a guarantee of safety. After all, what if Phillip had overrun the place after finishing off those who walked into the ambush? He and Andrea would be walking out of the frying pan and into the fire.

_Optimism_, he reminded himself.

Milton stuffed the last of his few belongings into his pack and with a quick glance around his room, headed out the door. It was a strange feeling, leaving this place that had been his in this world where nothing was permanent, but he reminded himself that it was an inanimate object and something he could find anywhere. There was only Andrea, one chance for freedom. He wore his jacket which was not much more than a windbreaker, but it was still bulky enough to hide the knife and pistol he had managed to smuggle out of the weapon supply. His nerve failed him when attempting to take something more lest the absence be noticed by one of Phillip's thugs.

_It's a wonder you made it this far_, said that voice of relentless doubt in the back of his mind. It was always there, reminding him how physically inept he was and that the best he had to offer was moral support which didn't always work anyway because he was socially awkward.

_You connect better with biters than living people._

"Shut up," he muttered under his breath as he descended the stairs from his apartment and set off towards the back of the shed. He expected his guilty conscience to give him away at any moment and knew that his little shuffled walk was the most obvious he could be that he was about to do something against Woodbury's rules, but no one stopped him and he arrived at the back exit with a sheen of sweat gathered on his forehead despite the chill of the late afternoon. Pushing his glasses further up the bridge of his nose where they had been slipping from the perspiration, he tried the door handle, but found it locked.

Typical. Luckily he had the spare key. After all, this was his lab and Phillip couldn't keep him out; if Milton wanted in, he was going in. With a twist of the key, he was able to sneak inside and for good measure he armed himself with the pistol. If Phillip had killed Andrea, she might have come back as a biter and would attack him in which case he would have to put her down. He swallowed hard.

He found the door leading to the torture chamber Phillip planned for Michonne and pushed it open, raising the pistol to eye height. The patient chair in the middle of the room was occupied. Andrea sat there, chained in tight and slumped over with her head hanging forward. There was blood on her forehead from a nasty gash, but Milton couldn't see signs of any other wounds. He went to her and stuck his hand in front of her mouth to see if he could feel her exhale and when the warmth of her breath touched his skin, he prodded her with the tip of his pistol.

For someone who looked like she had been hit over the head with a trowel, Andrea came awake very quickly—and noisily. She raised her leg and kicked out at him, catching him in the shin so that he stumbled backward and fell onto his rear end in front of her.

"Don't you touch me, you son of a bitch, or I'll—Milton!"

"Shh," said Milton nervously. He came onto his feet and examined her head injury. "It's not bad, but I want to get you out of that chair before I treat it. Here, hold this." He handed her the pistol and told her to watch the door while he worked on the locks to her chains. She was the better shot anyway and he felt safer with her guarding his back than he did with trusting himself to properly use the weapon.

"I'm sorry I kicked you, but I thought you were him," said Andrea apologetically.

"Don't worry about it," said Milton, shining a flashlight directly over the lock to peer inside. "I think I can work with that." He stuck the flashlight handle in his mouth and took a Torsion wrench out of the tool kit he found from Phillip's torture supplies on the table behind ANdrea. He fiddled with the wrench for several tense moments and a few droplets of his sweat fell onto Andrea's knuckle. Freezing in place, he waited for her to make a movement or sound of disgust, but nothing happened.

"What's wrong, do you hear something?" she asked.

"N-no, it's just—nevermind."

_She's just too polite to say anything. Who sweats on a manacled woman?_

No, he had to focus. Sweat didn't matter right now. The important thing was to get her free and he could worry about her reaction or lack thereof later. He bit his tongue in concentration and went at the lock again until he heard the satisfying click of the catch inside. Andrea stood up shakily and shed the chains like they were on fire. Milton winced at the loudness of the clanking on the concrete ground and prayed that no one on the outside had heard.

"Thank you," Andrea gasped, hugging Milton to her and nearly sobbing in relief. "I could kiss you right now."

_Please don't_, he thought desperately. He could only imagine how he would respond to such affection but he was fairly certain it wouldn't be in a socially acceptable way. Tensing as he felt her lips brush his cheek, he waited for it to be over and cleared his throat pointedly.

"We need to get going. If we get on the roof, we can jump over the wall."

"Isn't that a bit of a high jump?"

"Well, yes, but we don't have that many options as far as exits," said Milton, embarrassed at her accusing stare.

"What if someone sees us?"

"Again, not a lot of options."

She blinked and then cocked her head slightly to the side. "You haven't really thought this through, have you?" she asked skeptically.

_There it is, the doubt_. Milton shrugged. "Well, if you'd rather be chained to the chair—"

"No, that's not what I meant. I'm sorry, I just don't know how well this is going to work."

"Phillip took most of the manpower with him to set a trap for your friends at the warehouse, so he won't be coming back here for a while yet. The men he left are just Woodbury residents, good people. If anyone sees us, well we're both residents, aren't we? We can make something up."

She still looked like she would rather take her chances waltzing out the main gate, but Milton saw that he had won her over. To reassure her though, he grasped her forearm very briefly, surprised at his own daring. He met her eyes and saw fear, fear of everything: of leaving, of staying, of what waited inside the walls and on the outside. If he wasn't equally frightened then he was lying through his teeth, but never before had he needed to be someone else's strength. She was depending on him, completely putting her trust and her life in his hands, but she needed to hear him say it first.

"Trust me on this one, okay?"


	3. Chapter 3: To the Trees

**ANDREA:**

From this height, the ground looked like it was about a mile below her, but Milton assured her that the weeds would cushion her fall. If she was honest with herself, that didn't make her feel any better, but what choice did she have? She went onto her stomach and army crawled across the roof so that the lookouts on the wall wouldn't see her, following Milton to the edge where the two of them agreed that the ground looked softest. The knock to her head made the grass swim before her and she clapped her eyes shut for a moment.

"I'll go first," Milton volunteered, sounding absolutely terrified.

"Try to roll as soon as your heels reach the ground to take pressure off of the landing," Andrea advised.

He didn't respond, tucking his glasses away in his breast pocket as he rotated around until his ankles were hanging off the edge. Inch by inch he backed up and then, when he was holding on by his upper body, he lowered himself down and let go. He took her advice, but not by choice as his heels touched the ground and his momentum carried him backward, legs first so that he did a very ungraceful backwards somersault. Andrea had to resist the urge to laugh as she watched him sit up, hair standing up on end with grass and a few twigs stuck in it. He replaced his glasses and then nodded to her, either completely unabashed or unaware of just how ridiculous he looked. Knowing what she did of Milton, she was inclined to think the latter.

With her pistol stowed in her belt, Andrea mimicked Milton's movements, but making sure to breathe and focus on protecting herself from further injury. Steeling herself, she used all of her upper body strength to hold her position for a moment and then released. The second she felt something solid beneath her, she bent her body forward and rolled once, landing stomach down in the bramble of weeds and uncut grass. She checked herself for injuries and crept over to where Milton was waiting for her, hidden by the overgrowth.

"Stay low until we get to the trees and keep right behind me," she told him in a whisper.

He didn't seem to mind her taking charge now, which she was grateful for. Milton never asked too many questions or protested much and right now it was best if he follow her lead because she was the one who knew the way to the prison and they were still close enough to Woodbury to raise the alarm if they were spotted. Lifting her head slightly to get her bearings, she took a moment to pick out her route when she felt Milton's fingers touch her ankle. His hand shook just enough to alert her to danger, but the firmness also warned her to be cautious. Making sure that her pistol was well hidden beneath her jacket, she slowly turned over to see a teenage boy standing not five feet from them, automatic trained on Milton.

"The Governor said she ran off to join those people who got inside and killed Haley and the others. What the hell is she doing back?" asked the boy and Andrea detected a definite note of fear in his voice. Also, by the way he was holding his weapon, she concluded that he was about as experienced as Milton.

"The Governor lied, Travis," said Milton steadily.

"He's a good man; he kept us safe until _her_ friends showed up," snarled Travis, pointing his automatic at Andrea. There was cold fury and loss in his eyes, fear of what he felt he had to do.

_He's just a kid_, Andrea thought. _Maybe five years older than Carl. He hero-worships Phillip because Phillip is a strong male figure—maybe Travis doesn't have one of those. Maybe his dad died in the outbreak._

"Look at her face," said Milton. "The Governor did that to her. She knew those people at the prison months before she met us, but she thought they were all dead. When she found out they were alive, she had to choose between us or them and though she doesn't mean any of us harm, she can't stay. You don't know what goes on in my lab, Travis; you don't know what things the Governor has done that he thinks are morally right. He tells himself that he's doing it for the good of Woodbury, but he's doing it for revenge against Andrea's friend who killed the Governor's daughter."

"The Governor never had a daughter," said Travis.

"She was a biter that he kept stored in his room, hoping that the infection would wear off and she would come back to him. He's delusional and dangerous if you know what he's up to. Trust me; I knew him before the outbreak and the way he is now is not the man he once was."

"You're lying," said Travis, though now he sounded unsure.

"And you're alone," said Milton, surprising Andrea with the concern and care in his voice as he spoke to the boy. Milton knew these people like anyone in a close-knit community would, but he was leaving them to Phillip for Andrea. At what cost, though? Did he truly want to go with her, or did he just feel obligated, threatened even, because Phillip would suspect who set her free?

"I understand that you look up to the Governor and that he's always been kind to you and before he lost his daughter, that was genuine. He did care about you, but now he will use you to kill innocent people. I don't have time to explain, but I need you to make a decision. I would never hurt you, so I'm not going to attempt to rush you and take your weapon. You can let us go, come with us, turn us in, or just shoot us. You're nearly a man now and I trust you to make the right choice."

_Okay, maybe that's going a little too far_, thought Andrea. Giving the boy the final decision was leaving everything up to chance and Milton had no right gambling with her life. _Actually, he does, considering all that he's throwing away for you_.

Travis readjusted his grip on his weapon, shaking his head, though it seemed to be at himself rather than them. "You don't understand, Milton," he said after a minute of silence. "You can't because of the way you are. You won't let people get close to you and you can't show affection, so you wouldn't know the first thing about having someone tell you that the person you respect most is a lunatic. I don't believe you."

_Here it comes_. Andrea prepared to go for the pistol, hoping she was faster than Travis and wondering if she and Milton could at least get to the trees before the other guards started firing. She hated the thought of having this boy's blood on her hands.

"I won't shoot you, but I won't go with you either. I'm staying here and if the Governor sends me out to kill you, I will. Don't come back, Milton, because Woodbury's doors are closed on you."

An immediate protective instinct took over Andrea and she confronted Travis, which probably wasn't the smartest decision on her part since he still had the automatic in hand. "Hey, look, son—"

"Don't call me that," Travis snapped. "I don't have any parents and I don't need any."

"Okay, I tried to be pleasant, but if you're going to have that attitude, fine," Andrea retorted. Milton made a noise of protest, but she kept talking. "I don't give a damn what you think about me, but from what I observe, you and Milton know each other very well. He's not turning his back on you, but he can't stay here, not after helping me. The Governor plans to kill me and when he finds out I'm gone, he'll narrow down the suspects really quick then make an excuse as to why Milton's suddenly gone, making him out to be a traitor. Milton's the only one who has his head screwed on right: he doesn't want to see anyone killed. No one is the enemy for him, but no one else thinks like that, so he has to stay alive in the best way he knows how. If he does come back, it'll be for all of his friends here because he thinks he can protect you."

Something that looked suspiciously like tears brimmed in Travis's confused eyes, but he jerked his head at the trees and said in a strained voice, "Go on, get out of here."

Andrea opened her mouth to respond, but Milton tugged insistently at her arm, now in the lead. His eyes had a very no-nonsense look that clearly said, _Shut up, shut up right now and crawl, damn it._

Travis was already heading back to the area of the wall where he apparently had hopped down and Andrea knew Milton didn't want to be around for when he approached one of the other guards, regardless of what the boy promised by letting them go. Andrea flattened herself out again and crawled, pulling herself forward with such speed that she overtook Milton in seconds and had to pause for a moment and listen for his winded breathing to catch up with her. At any moment she expected to hear the alarm from Woodbury and she prepared for an explosion of power within her core to help her leap up and run like hell. The only problem was she didn't know how fast Milton could run, or even if he could since he didn't look fit by any means. Did he have asthma?

_It doesn't matter; you take him with you, no matter what. You _owe _him that._

"We're clear," he whispered to her and she let herself up. Getting a good look at Milton, she had an idea of what she probably looked like right now: covered with dirt and grass all down the front, sweaty, and flushed. He glanced back over his shoulder and regarded Woodbury with a type of sadness she recalled upon leaving home for the first time to attend college. Saying goodbye to everyone and everything you knew to pursue an uncertain future was one of the most difficult things anyone could do and required a certain kind of bravery. This, though, was far different because at least she knew she could always come home to her dad and Amy if things didn't work out. Milton had nowhere left to go if the prison group didn't accept him and he would not survive on his own with how little experience around walkers he had. Sure, he was the one to help her escape, but he was helpless without her, like a child.

_Travis is more capable of protecting himself than Milton. Milton is dead weight. He doesn't know._

But at the moment, Milton was all she had.

Andrea helped him to stand, brushed off the front of his jacket a few times to no effect, and motioned forward, deeper into the trees.


	4. Chapter 4: Hobbled

**MERLE:**

His butt had gone numb with the cold an hour ago and his fingertips were starting to feel very distant as well. Cursing Martinez had lost its fun about twenty minutes into his stake out and now he had nothing to occupy himself with besides listening for the sound betrayal of crunching leaves. When he thought he could spare a moment to take his attention off of his surroundings he had made a tourniquet for his wound, but the pain had only increased and now the chilled blood that hadn't dried was making his shirt stick uncomfortably to his skin. He wished he had thought to bring a jacket, but in truth, he didn't think he would live to feel the temperature drop that came with night.

The wistful part of him told him that if Martinez had not brought backup yet, he wasn't going to put in an appearance and Merle should get moving, but the logical part (which was a rather dormant part of his personality) pointed out that with a serious wound, no light to guide the way, and no assurance on where he actually was, moving was not an option. He wondered if Michonne had made it back to the prison yet and if she had told anyone about his plan to intercept the Governor. Maybe Daryl was out in the woods looking for him. Maybe Rick and Glenn came with him.

_Don't get your hopes up._ He wasn't valuable enough to anyone in the prison but Daryl for them to risk coming out at night to look for him. No one ever came for Merle. Not on the roof, not in the arena (Rick had come back for Daryl and Merle was just extra baggage), not now.

Something heavy fell behind him and he sat up, looking about everywhere and trying to adjust his eyes to the darkness, but he could only see a few feet in front of him and whatever had fallen did so well beyond that boundary. A dull thud followed and then someone hissed, "Could you be any louder?"

Merle prepared to shoot, at whom, he didn't know, but at this point it didn't matter. He waited for the people to get closer, until he could at least see some sort of silhouette. What looked like a man's upper body loomed into view and seconds away from pulling the trigger, Merle was blinded as a light hit him full on in the face.

"Put the fucking light out!" he cried, shielding his face.

"Merle? What are you doing out here?"

The light lowered, settling unintentionally on his crotch, but he was too focused on Andrea and Milton's features as they stood over him in surprise to care about his highlighted nether regions.

"You're bleeding," said Milton.

"Y'don't say?" Merle growled. "What's the matter with ya, sneakin' up on me like that? I nearly shot the both've you."

"We weren't sneaking—" began Milton indignantly, but Merle waved his comment aside. "Yeah, yeah, shuddap and gimme a hand here—I could use one." Merle looped his appendage around Milton's neck and Andrea secured her arm about Merle's waist so that the three of them looked like they were about to compete in a four-legged race. Given that Merle was incapacitated and Milton lost, Andrea was promoted to team leader now that there actually was a team, which led Merle to start interrogating them in a ragged whisper.

"So, come here often?" he asked jokingly.

"Shut up, Merle," Andrea demanded. "Conserve your energy in case we need you."

"In case y'need me? Blondie, everybody needs ol' Merle at some point. That's why I'm out here in the first place; I met up with your bed buddy and let some biters loose on 'im. Took quite a few out, but got m'self shot, wouldn'tcha know. That was hours ago."

"He's delirious," said Milton, sagging underneath Merle's weight.

"That's whatchoo think, Miltie," said Merle with a chuckle that, to Milton's credit, did sound less than sane. It was enough to make Andrea stop and roll up Merle's breeze shirt to examine his wound. The fabric from his shirt made a soft squelching noise as she prodded at it and her fingers came away sticky with his blood. Merle smacked her hand away. "Watchit, that's tender."

"You've lost a lot of blood, Merle. Keeping you on your feet at this pace will kill you. I could leave you and Milton with the flashlight, go get help at the prison, and come back for you—"

"No," said Merle and Milton together and then glanced at each other uncertainly.

"You ain't getting' rid've us that easy, sweetheart," Merle added. Milton had nothing else to say.

"Well, I'm open to suggestions," said Andrea with a sigh of exasperation. "You're in no fit state to walk on your own and we can't carry you like we've been doing."

"I can carry him," Milton offered to which Merle scoffed and swallowed a very loud cough longing to burst out of his diaphragm. Milton had a hard enough time staying upright on his own two feet on level ground, so carrying Merle who had at least fifty pounds on him was not only impossible, but laughably so. Why Andrea had dragged him along on her flight from Woodbury was a mystery to Merle who saw no use for the guy, but it wasn't his decision to get rid of him unless he became a threat which would never happen.

"Miltie, don't make me laugh; it hurts," said Merle, tightening his hold around Milton's neck to hold himself upright.

"You know you're being deliberately unhelpful," Milton mumbled.

"How 'bout I stick my knife up your scrawny ass and watchcha shit out blood, huh? Then we'll see who's unhelpful. There's a bullet in my hip, y'tenderfoot."

"Merle…shut _up_."

Andrea's command came crisp, but quietly as if she was afraid someone would hear them. She was taking tentative steps back, trying to pull Merle with her except Merle was anchored on Milton who had frozen in place, eyes locked on the enormous creature standing in the light of Andrea's torch. It was a bear, a fully grown male black bear with blood on its muzzle and a mad look in its eye. Merle wondered if by eating the rotting corpse of a biter, a bear would turn into an undead version of itself. Deciding that he was not nearly curious enough to find out, Merle leaned into Andrea, tugging at Milton's neck to get him moving.

"Milton, back up," said Andrea, though barely audibly.

"Damn it, now," Merle snapped.

The bear charged. Milton shoved Merle against Andrea as the bear came at him and within seconds it was on top of him, teeth going in for the kill. Merle saw a flash of something silver and the bear roared in apparent pain while Milton shouted. He didn't have to aim properly, but the bear's bulk was hard to miss. Knowing he would regret not having a silencer, Merle fired off two rounds into the bear's head and it collapsed, burying Milton underneath.

"Milton!"

Andrea put Merle on his knees and rushed to the bear, moving one of its enormous paws to reveal Milton's face, pale and soaked in cold sweat.

"Did it get you?" she asked.

"I-I don't think so," Milton stammered, sounding as if he had an elephant sitting on his chest.

_A bear ain't too far off._

"Hold on, I'll get you out of there. Can you use your arms to try and push it off?"

Milton gave Andrea a look of incredulity.

"Okay, okay, well can you wriggle out?" Andrea ventured.

"With some help, maybe…"

Merle groaned and walked over to them on his knees, hugging his side. He pointed to the bear's head and Andrea lifted it up as he grasped Milton's underarms and yanked hard, dragging him out bit by bit until his entire upper body was free and then he was able to get out the rest of the way on his own. Sinking forward to rest his hands on the forest floor, Merle turned his head sideways and spat out a line of blood.

"What's a bear doing this far east?" asked Andrea, marveling at the fallen foe. "I thought it was just bobcats and lynxes around here."

"Normally," said Merle. "But them bears are starvin' up in northern Alabama; they've gotta go further'n further t'find food. And Miltie was food." As he made the jab, he noticed that Milton's facial expression had hardly changed since being attacked by the bear. The only difference to his appearance was some blood on his right hand where he had stabbed the bear with a knife which he now wiped off on the ground before sheathing it at his side.

There was just something off about that man. Some sort of disorder, something that made it difficult for him to function properly around people. He seemed incapable of displaying any type of emotion, which was not only unfortunate, but unnerving to someone like Merle who relied on the emotions of others to determine how he should be acting.

"Wake up, son, we ain't outta this yet," said Merle, waving his hand in front of Milton's face. "It'll take us all day t'get to the prison and this body ain't gonna carry itself."

"I can't," said Milton tonelessly.

"Bullshit. Y'said y'could not five minutes ago!"

"I was trying to be optimistic."

"And what exactly's changed since then? Are y'tryin' t'give me reasons t'poke fun atchoo? You wanna prove you're not a worthless weakling like everybody thinks y'are? Man up and do it!"

The first sign of life flashed across Milton's face: anger.

"I've had enough people tell me to do that, thank you very much. The way you need to be carried is something I can't provide, but I'm not letting Andrea go on alone, so it looks like we're at a stalemate. Unless you've got a better idea, all we can do is wait it out until daybreak and assess our situation then."

"I've got a better idea," said a voice from their left.


	5. Chapter 5: Trust Issues

**MILTON:**

Looking back, Milton wasn't quite sure how they managed to get to the road, but he deduced that they would never have made it if Merle's brother hadn't shown up when he did. Daryl tracked Merle on foot which Milton found highly impressive and finally located them after hearing the gunshots that killed the black bear. He and Milton supported Merle between them while Andrea led the way to the road where there was an abundance of abandoned cars waiting to be hotwired. Daryl did the honors after securing Merle inside a small blue car (Milton never bothered to learn the names of vehicles, which he found uninteresting at best) and the four of them were off, headed to safety much sooner than expected, but that didn't alleviate Milton's concerns about being accepted into the prison group.

He hadn't exactly gotten off on the right foot with Daryl to begin with and he was sure that any friend of Phillip's was no friend of anyone in the prison, especially after what Phillip had done to two of their group. In fact, besides the elderly man Hershel, Milton was almost positive that everyone behind the fences would have no problem throwing Milton to the walkers. Andrea could vouch for him, but after spending so much time in Woodbury, she would need to convince her friends that she was truly on their side and couldn't be bothered putting herself out front for him. He was going into hostile territory, but the sense of dread he felt as he sat in the back seat next to Andrea was very different from the one he felt when he thought about Phillip finding out what he had done. At least these people wouldn't shoot him down in cold blood—or so he hoped.

As if sensing what he was thinking, Andrea reached over and patted his arm with a reassuring smile. In the seat in front of Milton Merle rolled down the window and vomited onto the road. Milton saw flecks of blood splatter his window and he closed his eyes to keep hold of his breakfast which very suddenly wanted to come back up his throat.

"Hang in there," said Daryl, speeding the car along. "Hershel will fix you up."

"Gah, I'm fine, y'idiot. It's all this movin' 'round that's getting' t'me."

"I'm the idiot?" laughed Daryl humorlessly. "You went'n nearly got your dumb ass killed in a suicide run—what were you thinkin', Merle? If Michonne hadn't come back and told me what you'd done, you'd still be wanderin' 'round out there with Andrea and the butler."

"I resent being called that, as I've mentioned before," said Milton huffily.

"Resent it all y'want, pal. The way I see it; you're either a butler or a lapdog, caterin' to his needs and trottin' along at his heels, obeyin' 'im. He has you whipped."

"Then why am I here?" Milton demanded, sitting forward in his seat. Andrea rested a precautionary hand on his knee.

"'Cause you're gutless and you're runnin' scared."

"Pull over now," said Andrea suddenly. "Daryl, pull over!"

Slamming on the brakes, Daryl brought the car to a halt and turned around in his seat. "What?"

"Give me two minutes. Milton, get out."

Keeping his eyes on Daryl in distaste, Milton unbuckled and went around to the back of the car where Andrea was waiting for him. She placed her hands on her hips and gave him a disapproving glare. "You're already off to a bad start. If you want them to accept you, admit your faults, know when to hold your tongue, and let Daryl think he's right. There's no use arguing with a Dixon. I'm not going to be responsible for getting you killed, so promise me that you're going to work with me here."

"You think I'm worthless, don't you?"

He didn't mean for it to sound so desperate and chided himself for that, but he had to know the truth because there was no sense putting her through grief and prejudice if she didn't think he was worth wasting time over. If he was alone in his fight for approval, he would not survive and should just start heading in the opposite direction right now. Or he could just have Andrea shoot his brains out and be done with it.

_Congratulations, imbecile, you've done it now._

Andrea gaped and he could tell that he had hurt her, though unintentionally. "Would I have brought you this far if I didn't give a rat's ass about you, Milton? Would I have helped pull you out from under that bear if I thought you were worthless? Look me in the eye and tell me that you genuinely think that I consider you to be a lost cause."

Making eye contact was something Milton was never very good at because all of his life people had scared him. People, their ability to express whatever they desired—that was a luxury Milton could never have. The eyes were the key to the soul, or so he had read somewhere, and that's what made it so difficult for him to look at anyone when he spoke to them. That would explain why he had such trouble connecting to people as well.

"Milton, _look at me_."

He tried, but he could only hold her gaze for a moment. It was just too physically painful. She grabbed his face in one hand, her fingers gentle, but also firm enough to lift his chin. This was too much, asking for him to peer into the depths of her soul while being touched by her. He hated physical contact almost as much as he hated eye contact. But he looked and she was smiling.

"I've been away from my friends for too long and the people in Woodbury don't trust me anymore. The only person I know for certain I can rely on to have my back is you, Milton. And I'll have yours, but I need you to open up to me and trust me in return. Can you do that?"

"Of course I can," he said without hesitation. Mutual agreement was something he could understand.

Daryl honked the horn impatiently and the two of them climbed back in.

An hour later the car was in sight of the prison and Milton's pulse quickened as Daryl blared the horn and the gate rolled open to allow him entrance. He drove right on up to the nearest entrance and ran inside. Milton looked to Andrea for advice and she whispered, "Help Merle."

Milton opened Merle's door and lifted one of his legs out just as Daryl, Michonne, and Rick, their leader came hurrying out with a makeshift gurney to set Merle on. Michonne showed no signs that she recognized Milton, perhaps because it was too dark to see his face, but Rick glanced fleetingly at him and then Andrea who appeared on his other side.

"Daryl, you and Michonne on his right. Andrea and I'll take the left. You, whoever you are, take his head. We lift on three, ready?"

"Wait, I'm not ready—" Merle protested.

"Shut up," said Rick. "One, two, three!"

Milton was careful to keep Merle from bonking his head on the car ceiling and the other four set Merle down on the gurney, wheeling him towards the stairs. Between the five of them they were able to pick up the gurney and carry it the length of the stairs, but it was awkward and Merle was not helping the situation by swearing. They navigated a few turns and then Milton found himself in what could be classified as the living area. Laundry, food, weapons, and a spare mattress were scattered about the room. There was a baby carrier and other essential infant items in the corner. To the right there was a caged door leading to a cell block where a small number of people were gathered to watch the procession.

In the lead, Daryl brought the gurney to a stop beside one of the tables that had been cleared for an operation and Hershel sat there, switching on a few lamps to aid him. He spotted Milton and gave a small nod before turning his attention to Merle.

"Where's the bullet?"

"Just gimme the tools and I can get it myself," said Merle. His teeth were red under the lamps and he looked ghastly pale.

"His right hip," said Andrea.

"Went in through the back," Merle added with a lopsided grin. "Bastards didn't have the guts t'shoot at me from the front."

"Turn him onto his left side," said Hershel, rummaging in his tools for the correct utensil to pull out the bullet.

Rick moved in and Merle violently slapped his wrist. "Don't fuckin' touch me, y'hear?"

Almost as if they had planned it, Daryl, Andrea, Rick, and Michonne grabbed Merle and sat him on his uninjured side, holding him in place even as he fought back. Unsure of how to help, Milton could only stand by and watch. Once again, he felt helpless.

Hershel positioned a light as close to Merle's wound as he could and went in with a strange set of pliers. Merle screamed and called Hershel a number of words that Milton had never heard before.

"Son've a fuckin' bitch, what're ya doin', diggin' for gold, just pull it out already!" cried Merle.

"_Shut-up!_" yelled his four restrainers in unison.

"I've got it, now don't move," Hershel warned and like magic, Merle went still. "This is going to cause a lot more blood flow if I don't do this properly, so stay absolutely still." Seeing Milton standing idly, Hershel beckoned to him. "When I pull it out, press your hands over the wound immediately because he's going to thrash once he feels it."

Hershel was asking Milton to drench his hands in another man's blood. Milton was never completely sure if he was a hemophobe, but now did not seem like the best time to find out. He tried to protest, but Hershel yanked and the bullet came free. Against his will, Milton clapped his hands down over the gaping hole in Merle's back and pressed hard as the other four leaned into their task to hold him. Merle was coughing up blood through a stream of agonized tears, soaking Andrea's pant leg in red.

"H-how long do I need to stay like this?" asked Milton, dreading the answer.

"Until I tell you to stop," answered Hershel. "It's just blood, son, and clean, uninfected blood at that. There are far worse things you could stain your hands with, like cold blood, if you get my meaning. Just keep pressure on that and think about something else."

"For starters, who are you?" asked Rick.

"Milton Mamet. I'm a friend of Andrea's."

Andrea took that as her cue to relate her story, allowing Milton to remain gratefully silent until she had finished and Rick began asking questions again. He looked like a man who had gone through hell and had every reason to distrust strangers.

"And I have to take your word for it, Andrea, that he's on our side? Your friend _Phillip_ sent walkers into the prison yard to kill us and nearly did. He attempted to ambush us today, according to Merle, and now his friend from before the outbreak is here after helping you escape? Things aren't adding up and after nearly a year thinking you were dead, I'm sure you can see why."

"You trust Merle," said Andrea furiously. "He beat Glenn and kidnapped Maggie, but you're here now doing everything you can to save him, same as me. He saved you all today and Milton saved me. Without him you wouldn't have me and you wouldn't have Merle to tell you what Phillip's planning."

"We know nothing about him, Andrea, and I doubt you know much more than we do."

"Guy's a pansy," said Merle through clenched teeth. "Doesn't know the front end've a gun from the back. More like a Bible salesman than a scientist."

The others were sold: if Merle was sticking up for Milton, there was no chance that he could be a threat. Merle never defended anyone, but he knew Milton the longest and for once, Milton was glad of it.

_Where's your self-esteem if you're glad to be called a weakling?_

"Alright, I'm gonna stitch him up now, so you can back away," said Hershel to which Milton readily complied.

"There's a sink over there where you can wash up," said Daryl, nodding at the back wall.

Milton held his hands aloft and hurried over to the sink, but it was a knob and he didn't want to get blood all over it. A girl with her golden hair pulled back in a ponytail popped up at his elbow and turned on the water for him. Without looking at her, he gave an appreciative mumble and rubbed his hands together, watching the red wash away and swirl in a vortex pattern down the drain.


	6. Chapter 6: Useful for What?

**DARYL:**

It just went to show how much Rick took stock in Daryl's opinion when it came down to it. When Merle threatened the unity of the group and Daryl chose his brother, Rick let him and only accepted him back in when Daryl and Merle saved his sorry ass from the walkers. Rick owed the brothers a life debt and that was the only reason Merle was allowed in the prison. But now, when Daryl's instincts were sending off warning signs about this man servant, Rick didn't give a damn about what Daryl had to say. Okay, so Merle stuck up for him, which was very un-Merle-like, and Andrea insisted that she and Milton had been trying to persuade some of Woodbury's citizens to join up with the prison against the Governor, but Daryl had yet to see this Milton Mamet prove himself.

According to Merle, he was about as helpful as Judith because he couldn't shoot worth a damn and he had the guts of a codfish. Every person in their group knew how to defend themselves thanks to the hours, the days, the _months_ of practice and hard discipline with being on the run, hiding, being alert. Everyone here had lost someone and grown stronger for it, grown closer together so that their bond was inseparable. Then this sniveling coward came barging in expecting lenience for his alliance with the Governor. Fat chance. Milton Mamet had endured the majority of the outbreak safely inside his heat and air condition-powered community with three square meals a day and multiple men to do the dirty work. He didn't know what it was like living in fear of a walker sneaking up on you at any second, having to put down someone you loved, wondering which day would be your last.

But after a hurried and one-sided conversation with Rick, Hershel, and Glenn, Daryl was outvoted that Milton would stay and be closely monitored by them all. Andrea would share a cell with him and if the two did not cause any trouble, they would be welcomed into the group. Sure, they were willing to accept Andrea again, but forgiving Merle was out of the question.

Two hours past dawn as Merle still lay passed out on the gurney with Hershel keeping watch, Daryl saw Andrea eagerly asking Rick what she could do to help out. Milton stood behind her like a child that didn't want to be seen. His revulsion for the man must have been clearly visible on his face, for Hershel looked up from the book he was reading and said quietly, "He has some type of disorder that makes him that way, Daryl. Where you once had so much trouble connecting to people because you chose to seclude yourself, Milton is physically incapable of the same thing without help."

"That don't explain why he suddenly changed sides in the middle've a war," Daryl muttered, scowling. "He may not seem like a threat, but he could be a snitch. Maybe he's just here t'find out a way for his buddy t'get inside and murder us while we're sleepin'. Wouldn't surprise me with the way them Woodbury folks work."

"And with a leader who lies to them, don't you think the people in Woodbury are wondering the same thing about us?" Hershel questioned, licking his finger to turn the page of his book. "If Milton's loyalty to the Governor changed purely from observation, that gives me hope that other people will see it too. Milton was the one who showed Andrea what the Governor was planning and he chose to come to us even after being fed those lies that we were cold-hearted mercenaries. Michonne seems wary of him, but she seems to trust him more than Merle who, I might add, spoke out for him. That's not exactly in your brother's character, is it?"

"I'mma find out what this guy's story is," said Daryl, dodging the last question.

"Mind how you go about talking to him, Daryl," said Hershel carefully.

Daryl made no comment, moving into the cell block. Andrea headed to the second level with Rick and Milton was about to follow but Daryl called out to him.

"Hey, butler, hold up."

With one foot on the bottom step of the staircase, Milton shook his head with a sigh. "Look, would it help if I asked nicely for you to please stop calling me that?"

"How good's your aim?"

"I—what?" asked Milton, nonplussed.

"Your aim," Daryl repeated. "I wanna see how well y'shoot. If y'can't shoot, y'ain't much use t'us. Only person here who can't use a gun's the baby. What's your excuse?"

"I was never given responsibility for one. My weapon of choice was and always has been a knife."

"We'll get t'that, but right now you're comin' with me and I'mma show you how t'shoot. C'mon."

Andrea had stopped halfway up the stairs to listen in on the exchange and Milton looked pleadingly to her now as if asking for her to come to his rescue, but she gave an encouraging "shoo" motion with her hand and so Milton had no choice but to follow Daryl out into the courtyard. Carl stood watch at the gate separating the buildings from the recreational yard. He gave Milton a once-over, saying nothing.

_Least someone's got their head on straight._

"Come up t'the fence and take this." Daryl handed Milton a pistol. "This here's a Smith and Wesson 3913, or 'Ladysmith'."

Daryl could see that Milton knew he had been insulted by being handed a pistol "meant for the ladies", but he held his tongue as he took the weapon and to Daryl's surprise, checked the safety and the clip.

"I thought Merle said you didn't know the front end've a gun from the back?"

"He lied," said Milton simply. "I'm not experienced in firing them, but I loaded our stock at Woodbury and kept them all clean. Whose weapon is this?"

"At the moment, no one's," said Daryl. Only then did he realize that the Ladysmith had first been T-Dog's and then Axel's—and both of them were now dead. Was the pistol bad luck? Would it get all three of its owners killed? Daryl felt slightly disgusted with himself; he didn't want Milton here, but he didn't want him _dead_. The man hadn't done anything to hurt him—yet.

"So, show me your shootin' stance."

Milton faced the fence, supported his firing hand in his left, and went into a passable defensive stance, waiting for further instruction.

"Y'sure y'ain't done this b'fore? Y'ain't just foolin' 'round?"

"As I said before, I am merely a caretaker and observer of the weapons, not a user. Watching the others shoot so many times has helped me to find a comfortable stance for myself, which should help me aim better, in theory anyway."

"Right, okay." Milton's manner of speaking sounded so formal that Daryl thought the former was making a presentation to investors of a new product he had discovered in his secret chemical lab. "You've only got one full clip t'practice with 'cause we're low on ammo as it is. See that male walker out there, the one with the khakis and maroon shirt? That's your first target."

Dropping back into position, Milton pushed his glasses into place and aimed. The first round went over the target's head and hit the shoulder of the walker behind it. The sound aroused the other walkers in the yard which all started milling together to stagger up the hill and attack the fences. Milton's gulp was very visible and he took a step back.

"What do you want me to do?" he asked, failing to keep the fear out of his voice.

"Keep practicin'; them walkers can't getcha. Try again."

Not the answer Milton was hoping for, but Daryl was glad that that the man had the balls to step back up to the fence and pick out his designated walker. His second round hit his walker off to the right side of its chest, spouting a dark bruised-looking wound with rotten blood.

"Pick out a small target on the walker," Daryl suggested. "Aim for the eye, or the nostril instead've aimin' for the head. The bigger your goal, the bigger chance you'll miss it."

The walker dropped with the third bullet lodged above its left eye.

"Little high'n left, but at least it's a hit," said Daryl. "Not bad. At least you're not completely worthless. Bit more practice, bit more _confidence_ and you're golden, kiddo."

"Kiddo?"

"So just how good are ya with that knife've yours? Andrea said y'stabbed that bear with it."

Milton glanced at the large knife at his side. "I'm not one much for throwing it, but I know where to hit my target if it comes down to hand on hand combat. I'm nothing special, though."

"And if y'had a swarm've walkers comin' atcha, how well y'think y'could use a makeshift weapon or anything you could getcher hands on?"

"I think that can only be discovered if I'm actually put in that situation. I wouldn't lie down and die, if that's what you're asking though. Once the adrenaline kicks in, I would fight just as hard as anyone else if their life was threatened."

"Then think fast, Clint Eastwood!"

Daryl rugby tackled Milton and the two of them hit the concrete. He quickly found Milton's throat and closed his fingers around it, though not as tightly as he would if he had the intent to kill. At the disadvantage, Milton panicked and tried to pull Daryl's hands off of him, but then he did the unexpected and forced the Ladysmith still in hand into Daryl's mouth with one hard shove. Daryl let him go, standing up and backing off so that Milton could get up.

Breathing heavily, Milton kept his pistol on Daryl. "Wh-what—_what_ was that for?"

"Testin' your reaction time."

"Without warning me? You must have had a lot of confidence in me to trust that I wouldn't shoot you out of desperation and surprise."

"Naw, you wouldn'ta shot me," said Daryl with confidence. "I never hitcha or held tight 'nough t'make y'think I's gonna kill ya. But it was unexpected, right? That right there is whatcha need t'be ready for. Walker, animal, or man, y'always gotta have a way out. With some proper trainin' and exposure t'the real world, y'might just come in handy, Mamet."

Milton put the safety on his Ladysmith with the comment, "At least it's not 'butler'."


	7. Chapter 7: Walls and Fences

**ANDREA:**

"The way I see it, this is a double edged sword," said Rick, appealing to all of them as they gathered at the foot of the staircase. "Without the rec yard, we don't have to worry about defending as much territory, but at the same time, we don't have the watchtower or access to those crops we were working on. I'm only gonna go through with this if everyone is in agreement, though, because it's gonna take all of us to rebuild the fence the Governor knocked down and keep the walkers out while taking care of the ones that are already inside. So, by show of hands, who's up for making repairs and cleaning house?"

Without any hesitation Hershel, Glenn, Maggie, Carol, Beth, and Carl raised their hands. Daryl followed shortly after and Andrea felt a pang of loss. So much had changed between her and her friends in the year of separation that she no longer felt as if she belonged. She had to put these thoughts aside though, and prove to herself that _she_ had not changed, that she still cared for these people. Both she and Michonne voted yes and from the gurney where Merle was conscious, but still in obvious pain, he lifted his appendage. Only Milton made no move.

_Damn it, Milton. That's not helping your case. _She nudged him in the ribs.

Rick confronted him. "If you don't think this is a good idea, seeing as how you know the Governor's mind better than any of us, I'd like to know why."

Staring at a spot just past Rick's ear, Milton murmured, "I don't feel that I am in a position to be making any decisions for this group yet. Bluntly put, I don't think my vote is valid. I haven't done anything to earn my stay, so I don't feel comfortable making choices that might get other people killed."

If Rick was taken aback by the brutal honesty, he didn't show it. Instead he moved into Milton's line of vision. He had a knack for holding eye contact whether the other person was willing to or not. "Everyone else voted yes. If you want to prove to us that you want to be with us, you've gotta join in when I say everybody. That includes you, doesn't it, or d'you fall into a category outside of 'everybody'? I'm asking _you_, Milton."

"If you think my opinion matters then I agree with the group," said Milton quietly.

"The question is: do _you_ think your opinion matters?" asked Carol not unkindly.

Milton considered her with indecision as if he had never been asked such a blatant question. He shrugged one shoulder and Andrea could sense him going into defensive mode as all eyes in the prison turned on him, staring and wondering at this newcomer in their midst.

_Don't shut down, Milton,_ Andrea prayed. _Please don't back away from this. Just answer. Look her in the eye and answer._

"Up until things started going downhill in Woodbury, I thought my opinion mattered to someone," said Milton, addressing the floor, "But when I found out Phillip had been taking me for a fool ever since his daughter's, uh, second death, I came to the conclusion that I was only useful to him if I found a cure for her. When he lost her, I became expendable. Phillip is the only person I ever expressed my thoughts to besides my parents, both of whom died when I was young, so I've never had to consider the value of my opinion."

_That's why you're so damaged. You've never had _anyone_._

"We do things a little different from what you're used to, son," said Hershel. "It may be a hard living and it may be a whole new experience for you, but with so few of us, we don't have any choice but to care for one another. Perhaps I speak because besides Andrea and Merle, I'm the only person who's really gotten a chance to talk to you, but I hope you can come to trust us as we trust you. If we were uncertain about you, we wouldn't have given you a weapon, we wouldn't have let you into this cell block, and we wouldn't be voting to risk our lives out in that yard with you watching our backs. You can't live your life doubting everything, especially in this world for what it is today. You doubt, you die."

Andrea could have kissed Hershel right then and there. His support was what Milton needed to hear.

"Well, then that's settled," said Rick in a final sort of way. "There's no use waiting either, so let's get going. I'll lead the team to take care of walkers in close combat while another gets to the gate with some extra chains to reinforce it until we can do something better. Daryl, Glenn, Maggie, you're with me. Hershel, Carol, Beth, and Carl are going to cover us from the courtyard enclosure. Andrea, take Milton to the outer gate and get it sealed up."

"And what'm I s'posed t'do while y'all are out there raisin' hell?" asked Merle, pushing himself up so that the gurney swayed dangerously and started to roll backwards. Daryl caught it and held it in place.

"You're not fit to do any fighting," said Hershel. "That wound's not even two and a half days old."

"Bullshit. Watch me." Merle hopped off the gurney, fooling no one as he winced in pain, but the look in his eyes dared them to say something against his participating.

Foreseeing a danger if Merle was denied access to exercising his brutality, Andrea piped up, "Merle can drive the truck up to the outer gate, drop Milton and me off and then standby if any of us need a quick getaway. If you can still shoot, Merle, just fire from the driver's seat."

Merle look pleased enough, but Rick was not so ready to accept the proposal.

"He's a better shot than I am and you could use the extra manpower out there," said Milton.

"We're burnin' daylight, let's just go," said Daryl decisively.

Each of them equipped themselves for their designated tasks with the fallback team going for rifles and Rick's group picking out protective gear and hand-on-hand combat weapons. Andrea gathered up an axe, her pistol from Woodbury and some extra rounds as Rick laid out the chains for her. Though she knew they wouldn't hold the fence up against a vehicle, the idea was that once the walkers on the inside were taken care of, the chains would support the fence against the outside stray walker for the few days (if it took that long) to mend the fence. Merle picked out a few choice weapons for himself but Milton stood uncertainly by the weapons pile, weighing a crowbar and a bat in hand.

"Whatever you can do the most damage with, boy, let's get a move on," said Merle behind him.

Milton chose the crowbar in addition to the Ladysmith Daryl had given him and the knife he had taken from Woodbury. He rested half of the chains across his shoulders and followed Merle out with Andrea bringing up the rear with her portion of the chains and a device that allowed her to strap the axe to her back for easy access.

She sat between Merle and Milton in the car, thinking of the irony of the situation being that the three people Rick did not trust were all on the same team. Merle was waiting for Carol and Carl to open the inner gate for him, anxiously tapping his foot on the gas pedal, though Andrea knew the anticipation was for the eagerness to fight and not out of fear. The elder Dixon nodded his head to a nonexistent rhythm and gave her a grin despite his heavily bandaged chest that still had blood seeping through. Milton could not have looked more different, hands gripping his crowbar and twisting nervously around it. He had an expression that told her he wanted nothing more than to bail out of the car and run back inside.

"Hey, don't worry," she told him with a pat to his arm. "We've got the easy job."

"Yeah, okay," said Milton unconvincingly.

"Relax, Miltie. If y'get your pretty lil' head into trouble, I'll watch your back," Merle laughed, revving the pedal to show his impatience. Milton did not look enthusiastic about that statement whatsoever.

Andrea looked from Merle to Milton and back. _This is not going to end well. _"Go team," she said halfheartedly.

Carl pushed open the gate and Merle took off so quickly that Andrea nearly smashed her head against the dashboard but luckily Milton threw out his arm to catch her across the chest. Through his pale complexion, he turned pink at the cheeks and withdrew his arm, reaching for the "oh shit" handle as Merle drove them down towards the gate whooping and hollering. He slammed on the breaks so that the pickup spun a hundred and eighty degrees in the dirt and Milton opened his door with Andrea right on his tail. Merle never stopped, taking the pickup to the farnorth side of the yard so that the walkers started to follow him. Back at the inner gate Rick's team pursued them.

"Okay, they're occupied. Let's get that gate closed."

The two of them lifted what remained of the gate and tried their best to fit it back into place. Milton held it upright while Andrea fitted one chain at a time. Merle and the others were doing an excellent job of keeping the walkers occupied, but one or two strays were getting closer and closer from the inside and a few loners on the outside had nearly reached them. Milton did a small dance on the spot almost as if he was a five year old that seriously needed to use the restroom.

"What do you want me to do? The chains or the biters?"

"Make that decision for yourself, I'm occupied," said Andrea, biting her lip in concentration. "We have to tie these off as tight as we can in as many places as we can or this will have been for nothing."

"An-drea…"

The level of unease in Milton's voice grew, but if Andrea stopped now, they would lose valuable time that she had already spent doing up this one chain. She didn't need to turn around to know how close the walker was; she could hear it just fine. She heard Milton swear (the second of two instances) and he let go of the fence to put down the walkers. Andrea couldn't help it; she turned to watch.

Milton liked to keep the walkers at arm's length. He hesitated a few steps but then used the sharp end of the crowbar and brought it up and over into the first walker's scalp. The second one was already closing in fast and he lost the opportunity to use his crowbar so he had to resort to his knife. The steel hit the sunlight, making a brilliant shine temporarily blind Andrea though it subsided in time for her to see Milton shove the blade up into the walker's chin. He backed away from his handiwork and rushed back to Andrea to support the fence as she finished securing one side.

"Not bad at all, Mr. Mamet," she complimented.

Milton said something in reply but Merle blared the truck horn to draw more walkers to him and Milton's comment was drowned out.

"Almost done," said Andrea a few minutes later, sweat dripping from her nose. She glanced at Milton and he was sweating just as badly though still incredibly pale. He had the duty of jamming his crowbar through the spaces in the fence whenever a walker tried to grab at Andrea. She gave the chain a final yank and snapped the lock shut, throwing her hands up as if she had just completed a race and she high-fived Milton who actually smiled at her—before he dropped and the report of a gunshot rang out.


	8. Chapter 8: Mutual Respect

**MERLE:**

He heard her screaming even over the sound of Rick's team battling around the truck and the biters clawing at the windows to get at him. Distracted, he squinted in the direction of the main gate and saw Andrea shooting at something near the tree line. Milton was down, unmoving at her feet.

"Argh, shit…"

Popping the window open a crack, he called out to Maggie who was closest to the truck, "Y'all take it from here, I gotta run!" Pressing the pedal to the floor, he bulldozed over two biters blocking his way and sped towards Andrea. When he was less than five feet away he braked, threw open the driver-side door, and with his Browning BDA, hobbled over to her side. "Whoa, Blondie, whatchoo shootin' at? You're wastin' bullets!"

"There's a sniper in the trees," Andrea insisted. "It's him, I know it is. He shot—he shot…" She threw her empty Walter P99 aside and dropped to her knees beside Milton. Merle continued to watch the trees, waiting for the some glint of sunlight on the sniper's weapon but after a few moments of no sign, he concluded that whoever it was had retreated. He took a knee, the better to see the blood soaking the left side of Milton's face from just above his ear to the bottom of his jawline.

"Milton, look at me," Andrea pleaded, grabbing his limp hand.

Merle put two fingers to the pulse at Milton's neck. There was no response. He shoved Andrea out of his way and put his ear to Milton's chest with the same result. Cursing, he pushed down with his fist and miraculously Milton sat halfway up, gasping and choking. Andrea eased him back down and caressed the bloody side of his face, lifting up a few locks of hair to inspect the cause of his wound.

"It just grazed him," she told Merle in relief.

"Lucky bastard," said Merle.

"H-how long was I out?" asked Milton, blinking up at the two of them, his glasses askew.

"'Bout a minute'n a half, y'dumbass. Weren't either've ya watchin' for snipers, huh?"

Neither of them answered. Andrea was too preoccupied ripping off a section of her sleeve and holding it to Milton's head to stem the flow of blood. "Help me carry him to the truck," she said. "We've got more walkers inbound."

Merle grasped the front of Milton's shirt and hauled him into a standing position but the sudden blood rush to the novice's head made Milton's knees give out almost instantly. Just as she had done for Merle not two days ago, Andrea held Milton up by his waist while Merle took his arm and they escorted him to the pickup where Merle deposited him unceremoniously in the passenger seat while Andrea clambered into the back. One biter clawed at him as he made his way back around to the driver side and he stuck it in the forehead with his knife before getting back in. Seeing how his right arm was already worthless when it came to driving, he set it against Milton's shoulders to keep the latter from faceplanting on the dash on the bumpy ride back up to the courtyard.

Hershel, Carol, and Beth gathered around the passenger door and opened it before Merle had come to a complete stop.

"What happened?" asked the old man.

"Sniper," said Merle casually, "But he'll be alright. Bullet missed 'im by that much." He held his forefinger and thumb about five centimeters apart.

"Take him inside and I'll get his head patched up," said Hershel. "Merle, you and Andrea stay out here with Carl until Rick and the others get back."

"Yeah, that's what I'm talkin' about," said Merle appreciatively. He took Carol's rifle and she reached for Milton to help him out of the truck.

"No," Milton protested. "It's not bad. I can wait until the rest of them are finished. They need the help. Just let me sit here."

"That wound needs treatment," said Hershel but Milton wouldn't budge.

"Just leave 'im," Merle advised. "It ain't like he can go nowhere. C'mon y'all, biters ain't gonna take care've 'emsevles, y'know."

"Sit with him," Hershel told Beth and before Merle headed off to the fence, he heard Milton say, "I dropped my crowbar."

_ You're somethin' else, Miltie. Whoever shot atcha must've had shit-poor aim 'cause nobody gets that lucky. Well, 'cept maybe Daryl._

Carl stood watch at the gate, ready to open it as soon as his father came back, but in the meantime he was scoping out individual biters that were getting too close for comfort. Merle took up position a few feet over and Andrea came to his other side, plainly distressed.

"Perk up, sweetheart, he ain't dyin'," said Merle, picking off a biter nearing Glenn's blind side.

"It's not that," said Andrea. "It's the fact that Phillip got in so close to us and we never knew he was there. This is the second attack on the prison and no one could see it coming either time. You've gotten by unscathed twice, but what if someone really gets hurt the next time?"

"Worry 'bout that when the time comes. F'now, focus. Ain't helpin' nobody by stressin' out."

Merle watched in fascination as Michonne, who Rick had not assigned to any group because of her unpredictability, kept in close to the leader's back, dispatching biters with such fluidity that it looked like a practiced art. "Damn, she's good."

"Here they come," said Carl. With at least a dozen walkers still mindlessly roaming about, Rick brought his group back up to the gate and Carl let them in. The five of them were breathing heavily and soaked in sweat.

"Halftime break?" asked Merle.

"Shut up," said Daryl, gulping down a quarter of the canteen Carol gave him. "We just need a bit've time t'recuperate an' then we'll be back out there."

"Did you get the fence fixed?" Rick inquired, looking to Andrea.

"Yes, but we have a bigger problem. The Governor sent someone or he came himself and shot at us. We never even saw him."

"Where's Milton?"

"He's in the truck. The bullet only brushed him, but he was knocked out on impact."

Rick scratched at his whiskers. "Why hasn't he been taken care of yet?"

"He insisted on waiting until the rest of you were back in the courtyard so that no one had to be taken away from the action," said Carol. "Beth is with him now."

"Get him inside and have Hershel fix him up. Merle, you and Daryl stand watch out here, sights on the trees and let us know immediately if you see anything that isn't a walker. That bastard isn't getting that close to our people again."

_Our people, huh? Y'mean your people? They ain't mine, sheriff, none've y'all are and the day y'call me family's the day I shit out a replacement hand._

Rick's people moved inside with Andrea and Glenn guiding Milton. As soon as they had gone, Merle scoffed and sat down behind the sideways-stacked crate platforms. "For somebody who's so close t'the Governor, they sure are makin' a big fuss over a lil' bullet graze. Nobody gave two shits when it was you who got injured on the farm, did they?"

"They did," said Daryl defensively.

"Sure they did. Face it, bro; you'n me ain't worth diddly squat t'these people."

"You ain't 'cause y'keep that damned wall've pride up and y'keep referring to 'em as people. They're my people, Merle, my blood, same as you, but if you don't accept 'em, you're never gonna find peace here. It's your stupid devil-may-care attitude that makes 'em give ya dirty looks. Maybe the reason Milton's getting' looked after better'n you is 'cause he knows when t'keep his mouth shut."

Daryl's words stung and there was absolute truth in them, but Merle could not admit to that fact. This tough as nails act was who he actually was and he couldn't just switch it off.

"He'd also likely piss his pants b'fore he helped you out in a battle. And don't forget that I was the one who saved your ass by fumblin' that ambush."

Daryl stuck his knife through the fence and dispatched a biter. "What d'you want, Merle? Y'want gratitude? That ain't forthcomin' if y'demand it and maybe that's why everyone's still steppin' lightly 'round you. You've gotta _earn it_, brother."

Earn it? He damn well earned gratitude, forgiveness, and acceptance in cutting the Governor off by going to the mill alone. What else did he have to do to please these people? Daryl would not leave them, Merle knew that now, but in order to protect Daryl, he had to stick his neck out for everyone in the prison from Rick all the way down to the baby. Merle had moved on from the rooftop, held his grudges and swallowed them, and for the most part forgiven all of those involved in leaving him behind but because of the incident with Glenn and Maggie no one here would let bygones be bygones. That left Daryl, Andrea, and Milton—possibly Michonne. At least Michonne didn't grant him a deluxe stink-eye when she looked at him now, so going to face off against the Governor had done some good. As for Andrea and Milton, they had seen firsthand how Merle's loyalty was rewarded in Woodbury and how he had been victimized by unfortunate circumstances.

_Earn it._

"Fine," he said, "I'll earn it."

He opened the gate and stalked out into the yard to meet the last of the biters that were still making their way up the hill to the inner fence. He had a knife in his left hand and the blade attachment on his right and of course, his pistol at his side as a last resort. Feeling his newly sewn wound stretch in protest, Merle sliced a biter's head open, spilling its juicy brains all over the path. Blood rained down onto the still green grass. Blood flew sideways, splattering his clothes. Blood was all he saw and all he wanted.

Sometimes later, perhaps hours, maybe minutes, he heard someone approaching from behind and wiping his knife on his pants which were already soaked through with blood, he gave the stunned onlookers a wide grin. The combat team had returned to finish the job that Merle had just taken care of. He extended his arms wide almost in welcome and gestured to the carnage around him.

"How you like me now, bitches?"


	9. Chapter 9: Endless

**MILTON:**

These would be the last few days of more sunlight. The nights would grow colder and darker and stay that way longer, making it more dangerous to be outdoors after the sun went down. Never before had there been any reason to fear the seasons, but all certainty was gone now that the circumstances had changed. And all Milton had to face the winter was a thin jacket to protect him from the impending weather.

He shivered, drawing his collar up towards his nose which was runny and numb as he stood watch over the courtyard. Besides the odd biter here and there on the outside of the fences, all was quiet. His head burned where the bullet had nipped him and the dressing Hershel had patched to the side of his face was itchy with dry blood. Yawning widely, Milton shifted his weight to his right foot and glanced skyward for telltale signs of possible rain.

Glenn arrived shortly thereafter to replace him for guard duty and as Milton surrendered his rifle, Glenn gave him a piercing glare.

"Did you know what the Governor was doing to us?" he asked, though barely audibly so that Milton had to lean in to hear him.

"I'm sorry, I don't understand—"

"Did you know Maggie and I were there, being held prisoner and tortured by your pal?" This time Glenn's teeth showed in a manner a little too animalistic for Milton's liking and he took a precautionary step away.

"No, I didn't, but even if I had, anything I said or did would not have helped you anyway. Phillip does what he wants and my protests would have fallen on deaf ears. I regret what happened to you both, but I never knew."

If he had to venture a guess as to how convinced Glenn was on a scale of one to ten, ten being completely sold, Milton would rate Glenn at a negative three. Still, he let Milton go without further discussion and Milton tried not to look guilty as he shuffled inside with the sole intention of going to bed and staying there for the next twelve hours. Rick and Michonne were sitting up taking a late dinner but everyone else had retired to their respective cells. Milton counted out the fourth cell after taking a right onto the catwalk and stopped at the entrance, allowing himself half a second to process what he saw before sidling off and looking away.

"Milton, you can come in," said Andrea from within.

"I will once you, uh, finish up," said Milton awkwardly, feeling his face burn red.

"I was just trying to get the stains out of my pants and that's harder to do when they're on. I'm in underwear which is no different from a swimsuit."

_Given the circumstances, actually it's very different._

"You've never been around any women in swimsuits, have you?" She sounded like she was teasing, but he couldn't be sure.

"Where I lived there was no, um, no call to have so few articles of clothing on."

To make matters worse, Merle suddenly appeared on the catwalk. He was as dressed down as it was possible to be for him with only his wifebeater and pants on, but he didn't look remotely tired. He passed Milton and stepped into the cell.

"So, which've you's top bunk? And Miltie, get in here, she's decent now."

Milton tried to hide his face from view but the light in the corridor betrayed him. "Boy, you're redder'n a freshly painted barn."

"Yes, thank you, Merle. You can leave now," said Andrea pointedly, climbing up onto the top bunk. Both she and Milton were given a mattress rolled up to form a pillow and a blanket from the dusty supply closet deep within the prison. Milton thought back to his bed in Woodbury: twin-size with two feather pillows, clean cream-colored sheets, and two blankets, three in the winter. Had it really only been yesterday morning that he left that place for good? He chided himself for wishful thinking. He would rather be here with these pathetic supplies than in Woodbury with ample blankets and Phillip's knife between his ribs.

"Sleep tight, you two," said Merle with a wicked grin and he stole off to cause trouble elsewhere.

Still standing ineptly by the entrance, Milton poked his head out of the cell just to make sure that Merle had really gone.

"Did you bring a change of clothes?" asked Andrea.

"No, I only brought what I thought was essential and light since I knew we would be running," said Milton and as he said it he wished he had reconsidered.

"Don't worry. On the next run to town we'll find you some clothes. I need some myself since these have blood stains all over them."

That much was true; Milton wasn't eager for a repeat experience of walking in on Andrea half naked. It was uncomfortable enough having to share sleeping quarters with her and he didn't want it to get any more intimate than that.

"Are you going to stand there all night?"

"Oh, sorry."

Milton ducked his head and sat down on the bottom bunk which creaked whenever he moved. Now he couldn't get up in the middle of the night to empty his bladder or do much else without waking Andrea. He swung his legs up onto the mattress and lay back, testing the comfort of his makeshift pillow as he picked out the shape of Andrea's body from the sag in the mattress above. He barely had to raise his arm and he could touch the springs that supported Andrea's bed.

"Do you snore?" she asked abruptly, catching him off guard.

"Do I—no, at least, I don't believe so. Maybe. No one's ever told me."

"How can you not know?"

"I've never slept in a room with anyone else my entire life, so no one knows what I do in my sleep. I myself don't know."

"I find that hard to believe," she said skeptically.

"A few days ago if you had asked me if I thought myself capable of turning my back on the only person still alive from my life before the outbreak, I would have said the same thing, and yet here I am."

Silence from the top bunk.

_You really know how to kill a conversation, don't you?_

"I'm sorry, I didn't mean it like that…" Even in his head, the apology sounded weak.

"No, it's not that," said Andrea after another tense moment. "I just—if you had asked me the same thing, I would have agreed with you. I never thought Phillip capable of doing the things he's done. I never saw any of it coming."

"We were both played, blindsided. Phillip excels in that area of expertise."

More discomfited silence.

"Good night, Milton."

"Good night."

"_You let a woman into your head, Milton."_

_A sagging mouth riddled in rotten teeth opened mindlessly._

"_Your calculations didn't allow you to see the damage she could do in the long run and you're paying for it now."_

_Dead-gray hands clawed uselessly at the air, trying and failing to grab anything significant, but the red stains under its cracked fingernails still looked fresh._

_When the time comes, she'll choose everyone else in the prison before she pays you back in full for rescuing her."_

_The whole body surged forward, held in place by Phillip's strength alone._

"_She'll fuck you over, Milton. I wish you could redeem yourself from this, but you chose her over me and you know I don't forgive easily."_

_The _eyes _did not blink. They were empty, devoid of life, and cold, but so focused on the highly edible and contained target ahead that nothing would be able to restrain it once it wriggled free._

_Milton had never known true fear until now. Phillip wanted to see him fall, see him suffer the consequences for his actions, but that only meant that he had to somehow keep Milton alive. Even if it was just barely._

_His underarms were sleek with perspiration, stinging against the wind chill that froze the sweat on his forehead in place. His breathing was shallow, growing shorter with every step Phillip took towards him, escorting the biter on the end of the metallic leash. He couldn't run, though not from lack of trying. Phillip had bound him so tightly to the branch overhead that his wrists would not even bend as they supported his weight above him. The bonds had him immobilized._

_Phillip dropped the leash and the biter charged._

_Milton felt the scream as it rattled his chest and ripped at his vocal chords, but he could not hear it. The biter seized his neck in one hand and his hair in the other and bit down, ripping out a mouth-sized chunk of flesh._

"Will you lie still so I can help you out here?"

Something had a hold of him—by the hair and neck and in a frenzied panic, Milton thrashed out, clawing at whatever or whoever was there. His eyes were not adjusted to the dark and blurred out his surroundings with the absence of his glasses. The sounds of a commotion from a few feet away reached him as if through a badly tuned radio. Then something closed around his collar and dragged him bodily from his bunk. He struggled to stand up but whatever held him was much too strong and fast. His knees scraped the ground and a toilet swam into view. Milton threw out his arms and found his voice at the same time.

"No, I'm okay, I'm fine! Don't—_don't_!"

Someone dropped him on the floor and Milton heard running water before a bucketful of the stuff came crashing down on him, dousing him in an icy blanket. Spluttering and choking as some of the water ran up his nose and down the wrong tube at the back of his throat, Milton attempted to crawl on his back away from his attacker but another wave hit him and he collapsed, gasping for breath.

"I'll do it again unless y'tell me somethin' that convinces me y'gotcher head on straight!"

"E-enough…_e-nough_!"

"Merle, what are you doing to him?" cried Andrea from somewhere behind Merle.

"Give us a moment, will ya, sweetheart?" Merle's voice was strained in a panicked way which was most unusual for him. Milton saw his broad shoulders block out the light from the corridor and Merle sat him up against the wall, holding him in place.

"The hell was that back in there?" he asked in a dangerous whisper.

"Was…what? What happened?"

"What d'ya mean 'what happened'?"

"I mean what I said," said Milton a bit irritably.

"Y'mean t'tell me thatchoo don't remember rippin' five long cuts on Andrea's arm with your short, dull, almost _nonexistent_ fingernails?"

Milton's heart did a backflip nose-dive into his liver.

_You what?_

"But how did I-? I would never do that. Is she okay? How bad is she bleeding?"

Milton tried to find his footing, but Merle shoved him back down, held his forehead still, and forced one eye open at a time, pulling down on the skin above and below. Even with how bad his eyesight was without his spectacles, Milton could at least see the concentration on Merle's face.

"She'll be fine. Them cuts ain't deep, just long."

"I was dreaming," said Milton as the images of Phillip and the biter came flooding back to him in a head rush.

"Must've been one hell'va vivid nightmare. I heard y'screamin' 'bout a minute b'fore y'woke up and went all Freddy Kruger on your cellmate."

"That's my first," said Milton, swallowing. Merle mad a disbelieving "puh" sound, which goaded Milton into what he hoped was a good alibi. "Haven't you ever had a nightmare? You know how realistic they can be, sometimes carrying over into your conscious so that your body and mind can't tell the difference for a moment. That's all it was."

Merle left Milton sitting in a freezing cold puddle of tap water in his undershirt, pants, and socks while calling over his shoulder, "This _is_ a nightmare, what we're livin' in Miltie, 'cept it never stops. No wakin' up here."


	10. Chapter 10: Broken Pieces

**DARYL:**

Not that he doubted her accuracy or skills in combat, but Andrea would not have been his first choice for partner on the supply run. His friendship with her had shifted since Hershel's farm and no matter what she did to compensate for originally siding with the Governor, Daryl would never forget how she singled Merle out not once, but twice to both sides. She begged for Daryl's life in the arena fight and left Merle to whatever horrors the Governor had in mind. When she returned to them for the first time to try and work out a truce, she became enraged that Rick had taken Merle in over her. As if Merle was scum, unworthy to live among good people, she had pointed a finger. Even though he had found her with Merle and Mamet struggling to find their way in the woods in the dead of night, he knew she only brought Merle along to help her protect her new boyfriend. No one even treated a dog that lowly.

Whatever she and Daryl had had in terms of camaraderie before the Woodbury incident was long gone. He doubted her more than Milton Mamet which was saying a lot given that Daryl had known him for a little over a week.

The roadside residence they were searching had little by way of the supplies Rick asked for, having been raided many times over by surviving passerby, but Andrea found a hamper bag and began throwing men's t-shirts, pants, socks, underwear, and a few articles of women's clothing in until the bag was nearly overflowing.

"I don't think anybody in the world at the moment has as many clothes as y'put into that bag," said Daryl when she had tied off the lot and slung it over her shoulder.

"I'm betting that most of these won't fit, but the ones that don't can be put to other uses and they might fit someone else. Plus, clothes get torn and stained and it'd be nice to have extras on hand, don't you think?"

"I wouldn't know; I've never owned more'n two shirts and one pair've pants at a time in m'life," said Daryl haughtily. People needed to be satisfied with what they had, however small or minimal, and here she was fussing about clothes for herself and Mamet. After last night's events, Daryl would have thought that Andrea would be downright insistent that she have a separate cell. She only had a bandage across her forearm as a precaution, but Daryl had seen the five nail marks on her skin when Hershel dressed them that morning and was actually quite surprised that Mamet possessed the subconscious strength to attack someone so violently.

Andrea caught Daryl staring and lowered the bag, placing her hands on her hips. "He had a nightmare, okay? He's not dangerous."

"It ain't him I've got a problem with," said Daryl. "The fact that he was able t'do that t'you while mostly blind and half awake gives me more confidence as t'what he can do at full capacity."

Without saying it aloud, Daryl had named her as the outsider and if she had looked slightly bitter before, she was absolutely glowering now.

"If you have a problem with me, Daryl, I'd like to hear it and get it out of the way while we're out of earshot of the others. Did I do something to offend you or make you look at me with disgust like how you did back in Atlanta?"

"If you don't know whatchoo've done, I ain't gonna tell ya. Anyone with an ounce've common sense would know when they've wronged someone. I couldda forgiven it if it was me, but it wasn't."

Dawning appeared on her face and then disbelief. "You need to stop defending your brother, Daryl. He doesn't need protection, least of all from me. I lived with him for most of the summer and he never did anything to hurt me, so why would I single him out? We left the past behind us and when Phillip called for your blood and his, I tried my damndest to save the two of you—"

"Naw, y'tried t'save _me_. I didn't hear ya tellin' your bed buddy that y'gave two shits about my brother. You were gonna leave him t'fate just like y'did in Atlanta."

"You know that's not true, Daryl." She looked wounded and beaten like when her sister had died, when Dale died. "Merle found me and Michonne in the woods when I was drop-dead sick with the flu. He could have shot us or said that he didn't know me, but he was the one who carried me to the car that drove us back to Woodbury. He kept me alive which is something I have yet to repay. He's still a stubborn asshole sometimes, but he's your family which makes him mine too. I can guarantee that I know him better than anyone else from our original group and I've learned to accept his faults as well as mine against him. We've cleared the air, so all that remains is for you to do the same. I don't know what I did to make you look at me with so much hate, but all I can do is apologize. You know I care about you, Daryl. You're my friend and one of the only ones I have left at that."

Something made of glass knocked over outside and shattered. Daryl ducked down, loading his crossbow, and Andrea checked her pistol for rounds. In a low crouch Daryl crept over to the window and parted the blinds ever so slightly to reveal about six or seven walkers crowding around the front porch.

"Walkers," whispered Daryl, holding up the count on his fingers. "Grab your bag'n head out the back way. I'll cover ya."

"Will you?"

They stared each other down for all of five seconds before they heard one of the walkers growl and then cut off as a giant thud rocked the porch. Daryl stole another glance through the blinds and swore under his breath. He recognized the Governor's henchman, the one who favored the baseball bat and cigarettes, and he wasn't alone. Three other men were with him and they were examining Daryl and Andrea's ride after having taken the walkers out one by one.

"Alright, we know you're in there," the henchman called.

"Martinez," Andrea gasped.

"If we've gotta come in there, it's gonna be ugly, so save yourselves the trouble and open the front door."

"The back," said Daryl again, and replied, "I'm comin', holdjer fire!"

It was probably the dumbest thing he had ever done to date and if he didn't live past today, the dumbest thing he would ever do, but Daryl shouldered his crossbow, put his hands up in surrender, and inch by inch, exited through the front door. All four of the men had pistols at their sides, but for the moment were only readily armed with bludgeoning weapons. That had to be luck.

"I gotta say I wasn't expecting you," said Martinez. "But I've got a question for you: did all three back-stabbers make it to your prison? I know I popped Merle a few days back and I never found a body, though a biter might've finished him off or he could've turned biter himself if he bled out and died."

The taunt about Merle made Daryl's ears ring with pounding blood, but he knew he had to keep Martinez talking for as long as he could to give Andrea some time.

"They made it. Merle's joggin' laps 'round the rec yard right now, I'll bet."

With an appreciative laugh, Martinez nodded his head. "I don't doubt it either. One tough son've a bitch he is. Shame he fights for the other team now. The Governor was pretty upset that he lost his best lieutenant, but what're you gonna do? Andrea and Milton made it too then, eh? She wasn't no surprise, but Milton turned quite a few heads, especially since no one thought he had any balls to begin with."

Deciding it was best to keep Mamet's uses—however small—a secret, Daryl fed the lie. "He doesn't. The baby's got more use than him."

"Well, guess he's your problem now until the Governor comes for you. The rest've you, anyway, because you're not making it back to them. Hate to do it, man, but I have my orders."

The hamper bag swung into Martinez's head from behind and knocked him over. Andrea pistol-whipped his skull and shot the next nearest man in the shoulder. Daryl didn't know if she missed on purpose but he sure as hell wasn't going to. In one fluid movement he brought his crossbow up to his eye and sent an arrow through another man's cheek. The last one had his fingers wrapped around his own pistol but with Daryl and Andrea both aiming at him, his nerve failed him and he ran for the truck with his wounded partner lagging behind. Daryl and Andrea waited until the truck had disappeared up the road before turning to the unconscious Martinez.

"What should we do?" asked Andrea.

"I don't think y'wanna know my opinion," said Daryl.

"I do; that's why I asked."

"I'd leave 'im here for some biter t'find, but I got a feelin' you wanna be a bit more humane about this?"

Andrea shrugged. "After the arena fight, he took it upon himself to gather up all the children and make sure they were accounted for. He never got on well with the adults, but he had kids before the outbreak, so there's a soft spot for them, a soft spot Phillip doesn't have. Were it Martinez in charge, Carl and Judith would be given amnesty when the final attack on the prison comes." She took Martinez's weapons and the weapons of the dead man. "You two have a lot in common; I think you would have been friends."

The cheap shots at Merle's injuries were still fresh in his mind, but against his better judgment, Daryl relented. "We'll lock 'im in the house. He'll wake up, safe from walkers, and if he wants to, he can make his way back t'Woodbury or get the hell outta town. But if I see 'im on the Governor's side again, I'll kill 'im. Y'unnerstand?"

Andrea's smile was grateful enough.


	11. Chapter 11: Dwindling Days

**MILTON:**

With the sun directly behind her, Milton couldn't quite pick out Beth's facial features as she made her report to him down on the lawn.

"It's been quiet," she said. "You can tell Rick, but I doubt it'll make much difference if you don't."

"It doesn't make much difference what I do regardless," said Milton moodily. "I just do what I can to help and hope I don't make things worse."

"I don't know why you feel that you need to make yourself the odd man out," said Beth sympathetically. "Everyone here has someone who's the crutch of someone else. Inseparable, you know what I mean? My sister has Glenn, and I have my daddy. And you—you've got Andrea. Are so blind that you don't see that? She relies on you, she's protective of you, and if something happened to you, I know she'd be devastated."

At a loss for a response, Milton blinked and turned his gaze towards the road. His heart caught in his throat at the sight of someone riding in the tailgate of a pickup truck with a large gray cylinder pointed at the watchtower. He had cleaned that monster enough times to know what it was even with his poor eyesight.

"Beth, jump down _now_!" he hollered, pointing at the oncoming truck. Beth followed his gaze and her eyes widened in horror, but to her credit, she did not hesitate. In one swift motion she had climbed over the handrail and jumped into open air, falling with her body spread eagle. By luck or coincidence, Milton was positioned in such a way that he was able to catch her, but the force of her body slamming into him made him stagger and fall flat on his back. A sharp pain shot up his tailbone to the base of his skull.

He saw the missile make contact with the watchtower and explode, showering debris down on him. Grunting with effort, he rolled on top of Beth and shielded her from harm for a full ten seconds until he wagered that the worst has passed. He snatched up the rifle she had been using, firing wildly at the truck which was now retreating back up the road.

His mind raced with frustrating questions left unanswered. Why was Phillip withdrawing again? Two attacks in three days but he never stayed to fight. Was he just demonstrating strength, or taunting them? Or was he just under the impression that both times he had actually killed his intended targets?

Beth gave a sob of pain at his feet. Milton dropped to his knees beside her and started checking for wounds. When he reached her left leg, she gasped slapped his hand away "No, don't touch it—I-I think it's broken!"

What did Milton know about broken bones? His parents never let him outside to play with the other children in the neighborhood because of his delicate condition and he never felt like going outside anyway once he moved into the foster home. The most adventurous part of his life had been the last few days and he had suffered no injuries besides the graze to his head. Uncomfortable though he was about the situation, he knew it was not right to leave Beth here while he went for help. Hoping that he was at least strong enough to carry her a few hundred yards to the inner gates, he shouldered the rifle.

_Don't be a coward; she's just a person._

"Put your arm around my neck," he told her. "I'll carry you."

With tears making clear patterns through the coating of dust on her cheeks, Beth wrapped her arm securely around the back of his neck and held onto his shirt from the front collar as he lifted upward and set off as quickly as he could for the buildings. She wasn't heavy, but she weighed more than anything he had had to carry in a very long time and unlike the inert things he had lifted, she moved and squealed in discomfort every so often as the pace shook her injured limb. By the time he had reached the courtyard, three quarters of the group were running towards him, fully armed and looking shaken.

"What happened?" they all asked at intervals.

"I think her leg's broken," said Milton abruptly. Rick, Daryl, Merle, and Glenn relieved him of Beth and carried her inside to be examined by Hershel, leaving him to explain to the women of what had happened. Andrea swore and started pacing while Michonne stood by indifferently.

"And you told her to _jump_?" said Maggie incredulously.

Trying to ignore the critical voice in his head, Milton stammered, "Yes, b-but she didn't have time to use the stairs which are probably demolished by now and—"

Maggie threw herself at Milton and hugged him fiercely. Having his arms pinned to his sides did not enable him to squirm or try to wriggle away, but he sensed a different emotion in her than when Andrea hugged him. Maggie's embrace was one of relief and gratitude.

"Thank you," she sobbed as she broke the hug and squeezed his hands. "Thank you, Milton."

Inside Beth was sitting propped up on her bunk with her leg stretched out in front of her, held against a makeshift splint. Her eyes were still bloodshot, but as Maggie went to put her arms around her little sister Beth smiled up at Milton. Hershel used a crutch to stand up from where he had been tending to Beth's leg and held out his hand to Milton who took it, though what for he didn't yet know.

"Thank you for my daughter, Milton," he said serenely.

"I—yes, of course. You're welcome."

Uncomfortably aware of many eyes watching him, Milton made the excuse to go back out into the yard and look for the crowbar he had dropped when he caught Beth. He found it easily enough, but to prolong his return, he started making rounds at the perimeter fence, noticing the absence of biters on the east side.

Not for the first time he dropped his pistol in the long grass. "Damn it," he said under his breath, coming onto all fours to search for the Ladysmith. After a few frustrating seconds he located it and stood up, brushing dirt off of the end. Then he saw the man on the other side of the fence and fell back, dropping the Ladysmith once again along with the crowbar. Now armed only with his knife, he scrambled to his feet and stood in place, uncertain of where or how to move as he stared Phillip in the face.

"'Lo, Milton."

"Phillip…"

"How're you liking your new home? Different from Woodbury, isn't it? Grimier, grimmer, tougher, I'll bet. Tell me, how readily did Rick and his passé accept you?"

A thousand scenarios played out in Milton's head. What should he do? Call for help, hold his ground, dive for his pistol, talk Phillip down…?

"Don't shit yourself; I'm not here to kill you—not yet, anyway. I want you to deliver a message to your fearless leader for me. Tell him that the younger girl, the boy, and the baby can leave by sunrise tomorrow and my men won't attack. If anyone else tries to leave with them, we'll blow the car up. Those two young ones and the baby have their whole lives ahead of 'em and I'm giving them the chance Michonne didn't give Penny. The rest of you can try and fight back, but for every bullet you use, I'll tack on another day of torture for the individual who fired. Right now very few of you have the good fortune to expect quick, painless executions. The others, well, you saw my workshop."

The same workshop Phillip had originally intended for Michonne, the one Milton had showed Andrea which caused her to flee Woodbury and the one she ended up being held prisoner in when Phillip captured her. The workshop Milton never had reason to fear until now, now that he was being threatened with treatment of the most heinous nature.

"Was she worth it, Milton?" asked Phillip and there was a knowing look in his eyes.

"She just wanted to keep them safe," said Milton, finally finding his voice. "She survived with them; they're her family."

"But they're not yours. You gave up everything for her. That's a high price to pay for someone who was just using you."

Satisfaction. That's what Milton saw on Phillip's face. He relished in the thought that Milton knew he was an outsider and that he had sacrificed all that he knew to get Andrea back to her people.

"You know what's coming, Milton. If you really care about her, you'll kill her yourself before I get to her. Now run, little rabbit, back into your hidey hole."

Milton left his other weapons and nearly tripped over his own feet as he pelted across the lawn, sprinting at a level he never knew he could reach until this moment. His shoulders were tense the entire time with the expectancy of a bullet about to pass through them but he reached the inner gate, flung it open, and with three seconds to spare to close it again, dashed up the short staircase. Flinging open the prison door and navigating the few sharp turns, he collided with Daryl who was just about to exit the living area.

"Easy, boy, where d'you think you're goin'?"

"Phillip," Milton gasped, hugging his side where a giant stitch had formed. His breathing was labored, a result of the early childhood asthma that had plagued him for years to follow. The commotion had aroused the others who gathered around him, though not so close as to cut off his air supply. Carol ran a soothing hand up and down his back.

"Breathe. In through your nose, out through your mouth."

"Someone get him some water," Glenn suggested.

"No…no," Milton panted. "Phillip was there—at the fence. He—he gave me…warning, a warning."

"Which is what?" asked Rick authoritatively.

Though the air still had trouble coming through, Milton spilled out the story to collective swears, gasps, and exchanges of fear.

"He wants Michonne most," said Milton in a raised voice. "But at this point I'm sure he has come up with a reason to single out each of you."

"And what aboutchoo?" Daryl's tone suggested that he thought Milton was excused from their appointments with torture.

"I was his only friend before the breakout that survived this far," said Milton, feeling the accusing stares of the group on him like a sizzling ray of sunlight penetrating a cool interior on the hottest of days. "My betrayal hit him hardest. He'll kill me too for helping Andrea." He couldn't meet her gaze, knowing full well what he would find in her face.

"Oh, Milton, I'm so sorry," she said quietly. "I should never have gotten you into this."

"Oh, will you stop? Stop feeling sorry for me. I chose this. You had nothing to do with it." You could have heard a hair drop in the silence that followed. "Excuse me." He didn't know where he was headed, but the deeper into the prison he went, the easier it was to shake off that horrible feeling of guilt from the look of hurt on Andrea's face when he snapped at her. His voice had sounded crisp and harsh, but weakness was not a variable they could contend with right now. Weakness had to be eradicated.

And he was the weakest of the bunch.


	12. Chapter 12: Shadow Dealer

**MERLE:**

No part of the prison was stamped and certified property, but Merle thought that this one room could be his, shut away from everyone when he needed space. Only Daryl and Hershel had come down here to talk with him because everyone else had deemed it "Merle's Space" without actually saying it aloud. At the moment, however, Mere's Space was occupied by someone other than Merle.

Milton was stabbing the table in the corner repeatedly with his knife. Apparently he hadn't summoned the courage to retrieve the more useful weapons he had dropped out by the perimeter but the force he put into each stab made it appear that the table had done him a personal wrong. He didn't even look up as Merle approached and only stopped when Merle dropped his automatic in front of him, making an echoing clang in the confined space.

"How goes it, Mystery Man?"

Milton looked nonplussed, twirled his knife around between his surprisingly steady fingertips. Normally when Merle saw such focus from Milton the latter was tinkering with something complicated and uninteresting in his lab back at Woodbury. Weapons made him shaky, made his concentration slip, so what made the knife so special?

"Mystery Man?"

"You're givin' everybody whiplash up top, man. No one can figure you out and with the Governor pitchin' his new threat, this ball game just got a whole lot more interestin'. Everybody's gotta take your word for it that he just spared you death so you could come runnin' in t'tell us that the kids have a 'get-outta-jail-free card'. I ain't buyin' that bullshit. The Governor knows damn well t'was you who helped Andrea escape and if he ain't sore with you right up there 'long with me'n her, I'll eat my other hand."

"He never said he wasn't angry with me," Milton interjected. "And he didn't have to. I could read clearly enough on his face."

"Makes no difference. How's the rest've the group s'posed t'know if you'n him made some sorta deal and you're just lyin' through your pearly white teeth?"

"I don't think they share in that sentiment quite to the amount that you do," said Milton a bit boldly. "If I had made a deal with him, wouldn't it make sense for me to go back to Woodbury with him and not involve myself in the dirty work? And even if I had gone with him, there's little information I could give him that he doesn't already have for himself. Phillip has washed his hands of me, or is the bandage on my head not evidence enough? My priorities are to fight back and ensure the safety of this group, not to tuck tail and run."

"Yeah, and when your buddy had me'n Daryl pitted against each other in a fight t'the death, what'd you do, huh? What'd you do, Milton? Not a damn thing. Y'stood there and let it happen."

"What was I supposed to do? Michonne had just killed his daughter and he was in a mad rage. He wanted your blood because you lied to him about Michonne and you know damn well that my voice wasn't going to sway him in that decision." Milton's voice had only risen slightly, but that blank-slate expression was the last straw for Merle.

"The hell's wrong with you, man?" he blurted out, sick of talking to a man with all the facial gestures of a brick wall.

"I have autism spectrum disorder."

Merle blinked.

"In a nutshell it means that I have difficulty relating to people," said Milton in a bored voice as if he had had to explain himself many times over.

"So you're sayin' that you'n people don't click," Merle summarized.

"I'm saying I know I'm not worth the time to stress over for anyone. I know that you still think I'm wishing I had stayed in Woodbury, but because of your deception, Phillip started this war and people have gotten killed. He's going to take out his revenge on this entire prison because of it and you'll be responsible for everyone's death, including your brother's."

Merle came within three inches of Milton's face, using every ounce of self-restraint to not pummel his ass into the ground. "Keep my brother outta this, man. Y'don't give a shit 'bout no one in this prison. Y'may have 'em all convinced that you'd take a bullet for 'em, but I know better."

"I think you're jealous that they accepted me as a stranger more willingly than they accepted you the second time around," said Milton coldly.

Managing a very sarcastic and dangerous smile, Merle shook his head. "Even with that disorder've yours, I can see it in your eyes every time y'look at Andrea. You'd bang her hard if y'had the balls to. But she might still be harvestin' feelins for the Governor and she don't give a damn 'boutchoo in that aspect. She's leadin' you on, Miltie, and you're fallin' head over heels for her bullshit."

Milton shoved Merle hard in the chest, fury and hatred burning in his eyes the likes of which Merle had never seen before. Merle laughed, though he felt strangely sick for doing it. "Now, that's more like it. Little fight in ya when someone insults your girl."

"Shut up," Milton snarled.

"Stick up for y'self, Miltie. You're angry, that's good. Feels nice t'_feel_, know what I'm sayin'? Careful on how y'use that anger though, it might getcha into trouble."

"You're the last person in this world to lecture anyone on anger. Back off and leave me the hell alone. What fun do you get out of tormenting me?"

"Hell, I don't do it for fun, man. I'm tryin' t'help ya, see. Y'keep whatcher feelin' bottled up for too long and it'll backfire on ya. I'm givin' ya a chance t'let it out now. Scream'n bitch at me all y'want, it'll do ya some good."

"It won't solve anything and the only person I'm angry at is you, but I won't resort to violence just because you goad me into it. I'm not going to throw a punch because you're a simple-minded bully."

"Then you'll be quick bait f'your pal when he comes knockin' on our door. Who's gonna watch your woman's back then, huh?"

Milton swung at Merle, catching him in the ear and making an odd ringing sound go off so that Merle was temporarily dazed. He jabbed his elbow into Milton's stomach, caught his wrist and twisted it to breaking point so that Milton was forced to drop his knife. Merle grabbed a fistful of Milton's hair, and slammed him into the wall with his blade attachment at his throat.

"Hit me again, Mamet, and this blade's goin' right through your Adams apple."

All the fight was gone from Milton's face, wiped clean as if it had never been present.

_Damn, you're good, son._

"Well? Ain'tcha got nothin' t'say?"

"Not to you. After what I did today, I don't have to prove myself to anyone, least of all you. Your opinion in this matter is of no consequence."

"Is that a fact?" Merle pressed the blade harder against Milton's jugular, drawing blood. "Big talk for someone who ain't got the guts t'shoot the man out for his blood."

"Go ahead," Milton prompted. "You're not hurting this group by finishing me off."

"I ain't spineless enough t'kill an unarmed coward."

"That's not what Glenn would say."

Merle didn't know how Milton had found out about his skirmish with Glenn, but for once he was not avoiding eye contact and it made Merle uncomfortable. The intensity and accusation in that stare was abnormal and jarring enough to make Merle release his hold. Milton didn't move.

"Milton, are you down here?"

Andrea strode in through the open door but stopped in her tracks at the sight of the two of them standing close enough to throttle each other and it didn't help that a trickle of blood was seeping into Milton's shirt collar. Her mouth dropped open in shock and with a quick glance at Milton, Merle took charge of the situation.

"Step out for a few, wouldja? I need t'finish a private conversation with m'buddy here."

"Why is he bleeding?" Andrea demanded.

"Everyone bleeds, Blondie, now git."

Andrea's hand went to her side where she kept her Walther P99 but Milton spoke up at the last second. "No, Andrea, it's okay. I'll be out in a moment."

Shooting Merle a look that promised him a slow and painful death if anymore harm befell Milton, Andrea backed out, but Merle dropped his voice to a whisper for safety.

"What'd the Governor tell you 'bout her?" he asked Milton.

"I don't know what you're talking about—"

"Yes, y'do. Fess up, boy, or whatever you're 'fraid of's gonna happen to her _will_. Y'know y'can't protect her on your own."

A fleeting moment of stubbornness later, Milton relented. "I was encouraged to kill her before Phillip gets to her. He implied that death by my hand would be merciful."

"That son've a bitch," Merle snarled. "What's your plan, then, Miltie? What d'you think your chances are?"

Milton shrugged, though it was a hopeless gesture. "I'll do what I can."

"Yeah, 'cause that'll keep her safe. Look here, I got nobody but my brother t'look after and you ain't worth a red piss t'me, but somethin' we got in common is her. She tried t'help me get back t'Daryl and if I ain't nothin' else, I'm a man who pays back in kind. I'll keep an eye on her on account've two things: one is thatchoo step up your game 'cause, son, it's weak as hell; and two, y'stay the hell outta my way and don'tchoo never swing at me again."

"Fair enough."

"Good. Y'can start by clearnin' out and don't let me catchoo down here again."

Milton needed no second urging and Merle sent him on his way but not before handing him back his knife.

He could stick ya with that, Merle told himself. If Milton had proved one thing it was that he held more stock in that seemingly useless weapon than anything or anyone else in the prison besides Andrea and a man loyal to his weapon could do unspeakable things with it if prompted to.


	13. Chapter 13: Crippled Youth

**ANDREA:**

The outer watchtower was in ruins, but Andrea still thought they could salvage some of it to reinforce the fence. She recruited Merle to help her start work on the gate early following the morning of Phillip's unexpected visit and the two of them worked tirelessly with a newfound vigor. The threat issued from the Governor only made them angrier that they hadn't done something to remove him from power while they still had the chance. Milton and Beth had been close shaves, but if anything happened to their group now, it was on their heads for their failure.

Andrea accidentally missed her nail mark and hammered her thumb, dropping her tool and swearing as she danced in place. Merle had a very firm bite on his lip to prevent himself from laughing, but Andrea knew she would never hear the end of this.

"Don't you say a word," she said through clenched teeth.

"I wasn't gonna," said Merle earnestly.

"Yeah, okay."

"Oh, hush up'n walk it off, Blondie."

Andrea bent over to retrieve her hammer when she caught the glint of sun off of something metallic and perked her head up. The shimmer had come from the bushes across the ditch. A split second of thought was all she needed to confirm her fear and she knocked Merle over in her haste to drag him out of the way. She heard the bullet twang as it rebounded off of the fence and yanked the rifle away from Merle's arm as he lay partially stunned on the ground. Andrea put the scope to her eye, aiming only for where she had seen the reflection, and fired off two rounds. She was rewarded with the sound of someone yelping in pain.

"Gotcha," she said to herself, and then turned to Merle. "Come on."

"Gimme a sec t'git back on m'feet, woman."

"I don't know how badly I wounded that sniper, we need to _move_!"

Andrea squeezed out through the chained fence, not stopping to see if Merle was following her. She kept the rifle trained ahead of her just in case her quarry was waiting for her. When she came to the bushes she listened for sounds that might link her to the sniper and almost instantly heard a crippled groan. Ever at the ready, she stalked forward until she spotted a rifle lying in the mud. She stepped over it and in another ten feet found a blood trail. The culprit was not far ahead.

He had been shot in the stomach and was attempting to hold his intestines in while crawling away. Andrea didn't know him well enough to remember his name right off the bat, but guessed it to be in the realm of Lionel or Leon. One of Phillip's men, not an ordinary Woodbury citizen.

"Hey."

The man spotted her and all the energy he might have been harvesting to make it back to his vehicle went out of him. He let his left hand fall to his side while still keeping a fairly tight hold with his right.

"Don't let me turn," he begged in a throaty voice thick with blood trickling from his mouth.

"Did the Governor send you to kill anyone in particular, or just anyone you saw?" asked Andrea, kneeling down about four feet from him.

"He said…anyone…"

"Are you leaving anyone behind in Woodbury?"

The man shook his head a fraction of an inch. "But the boy…"

"What boy?"

She never received an answer. Andrea covered her mouth with one hand, sinking down into the mud to choke back a sob longing to escape her. It had been difficult, almost impossible shooting Amy when she came back as a walker, but her death signified the last time Andrea hesitated before firing. Since then she had put down countless numbers of walkers without a second thought, sometimes out of revenge, other times for—and she hated to admit it—pleasure. But this was the first human to die by her hand, and not even one who was in the process of dying. This wasn't a mercy killing. She had knowingly and willingly shot this man and killed him.

"I done toldja t'wait for me, or didn't y'hear? The hell y'doin' crashin' into a scene like this?"

Andrea heard Merle's heavy footfalls stop behind her and pictured how his face must look right now. Perhaps he had known Andrea's victim well, shared a drink with him, saved his life on occasion...

"Diddee say anythin'?"

"Nothing worth noting," said Andrea, glad that her voice sounded steady. "Did you know him?"

A pause, then, "No."

_He's lying_.

Someone suddenly burst into the opening with an Uzi in hand. Andrea reached for the rifle, but Merle stepped in front of her and held out his pistol threateningly in a Mexican standoff with the boy.

_The boy…Travis._

"Throw it down, son, or you're gonna get a face full've bullets," Merle ordered, but Travis was not backing down. The boy saw his scouting partner dead at Merle's feet and angered desperation crossed his young features.

"You killed him!"

"How's that any worse than what the Governor sentchoo'n him t'do t'us?" asked Merle. "It's okay for y'all t'shoot at us, but suddenly it's a bad thing t'return fire?"

"What are you talking about? The Governor sent us to parlay with you. Lionel was scouting ahead and he said he'd come back for me once the coast was clear. I heard the shots and came running."

"Travis, the Governor lied to you _again_," said Andrea, coming out from behind Merle. She knew her appearance would not merit a warm welcome from the confused and easily manipulated youth, but Phillip had taken advantage of him one too many times for her to do nothing.

"_You_!" Travis started to switch his aim but Merle stepped in closer.

"Don'tchoo try it, boy! I don't wanna shoot the innocent in a war that don't involve you. Governor's usin' you, kid. Lionel shot at us and we shot back. Ain't our fault he got killed—that's on the Governor. He sent Lionel t'_kill_. Parlay my ass. Only reason you came with 'im was t'drive the car back if he twisted his ankle. This makes the third time our group's been attacked by cowards hidin' in the trees. Nobody's been killed on our side, but I got a feelin' that luck's run dry. If y'want the whole story, lay down your weapon and we'll take you in, but if you're gonna keep your head up your ass, ain't nothin' I can do t'make y'see otherwise. So what's it gonna be, boy?"

Travis seemed to weigh the two of them and finding perhaps more sympathy in Andrea's face, consulted her. "Did Milton make it?"

"Yes, he did," said Andrea with hope. "The Governor tried to have him killed, though. The bullet only scraped him, just missing his head. Travis, please, come with us. Woodbury is not safe for you anymore. Once this war is over, your friends will welcome you back, but the Governor has to be eliminated before that can happen. He lies to you all and uses you as cannon fodder until he can get in close to us. He doesn't care about anyone anymore, no matter their age or condition. We have a baby in that prison and the Governor wouldn't blink twice after shooting her or feeding her to walkers. He won't spare you either. As long as you don't ask questions, he'll keep you around, but if it comes down to your survival or his, you'll lose."

"I can't," said Travis. "I'm not saying I don't believe you, but if everyone else in Woodbury is blind to what's happening, they need someone to protect them. I'm the only one who knows; I can help them, turn them against the Governor. We can make a stand against him—"

"That's a good way t'get shot, kid," said Merle. "All the trained, able-bodied people y'got in Woodbury already work for the Governor and know exactly what he's up to. That leaves the elderly, the infirmed, and the youths and I hate t'say it, but that ain't an army. The best thing you could do for 'em right now is fight against the Governor in plain sight. When he sees thatchoo left him, it'll get 'em all thinkin' and wonderin' why four people who were close to 'im chose t'side with the prison."

"They need me," Travis insisted.

Merle opened his mouth to protest, but Andrea cut him off. "Let him go, Merle." She motioned at Lionel's body. "We'll help you carry him back to the car."

"First things first," said Merle. He lowered his pistol and shot Lionel through the head. Travis looked away when it happened and Andrea's heart went out to him. He was so like Amy in his dedicated innocence that it hurt to look at him. She said nothing as she and the other two carried the body between them a good quarter mile to the road where the car was partially concealed. Making a bed of dead leaves to rest Lionel's bleeding head on, Merle shut the back seat door.

"You be careful, Travis," said Andrea. "I know your reason for wanting to stay, and I want you to know that I too wanted to save everyone, but I could only figure out how to do that by getting out of Woodbury. If going back is how you truly feel you can protect them, then by all means, do it. But please, learn to see things for what they really are. Sometimes the people we think care about us the most are the ones whose lies wound the deepest. So long as you aren't against us, you have a place here, remember that."

"Watch out for Milton," said Travis awkwardly. "He's helpless."

"We can all agree on that," Merle muttered.

Andrea took a chance and embraced Travis in a manner that she hoped conveyed the trust she had in him and the sympathy she felt. To her surprise, Travis hugged her back briefly and then slid into the driver's seat, turning the car around and heading back up the road.

Standing and watching him go, Andrea said a silent prayer for the boy.

"'People we care 'bout most're the ones whose lies wound the deepest'?" Merle repeated. "Where'd y'come up with that waffle?"

"Just because that concept doesn't apply to you doesn't mean it hasn't happened to the rest of us," Andrea snapped. "You've never opened up to anyone, even your brother, so you don't know what it feels like to have someone who you love or who you thought loved you suddenly stab you between the shoulders."

"Well, I ain't the one who got stabbed 'twixt the legs with that betrayal."

Andrea smacked Merle hard across the face, leaving an angry red mark. "Fuck you, Merle. This is why neither side wants you in this fight. You're doing it all for yourself without giving a shit about anyone else. Maybe if you'd shown a bit more concern and genuine care, that boy wouldn't be on his way back to Woodbury."

She turned on her heel and marched back towards the gates, taking out a walker here and there as the sun began to set on the prison.


	14. Chapter 14: At Arm's Length

**MILTON:**

Milton had never quite been capable of growing facial hair. He had only succeeded in developing a type of peach fuzz that, while mostly invisible, still irritated his skin, and so with the little bit of daylight he had left, he propped a mirror Hershel lent him up on his bunk to set about shaving. The razor was Glenn's, the basin Maggie's, and the towel Michonne's, but all of them had handed over their supplies willingly enough when he mustered up the courage to ask for them. Sitting on the floor cross legged, he had to bend at a bit of an awkward position to see in the mirror and keep from nicking himself with the razor. With only two small cuts on his neck and one line left of unshaven skin to go, he was feeling rather accomplished when Andrea's form blocked out his light.

"I need to talk to you," she said delicately.

Since he cut her off the day the watchtower had been struck, she and Milton had hardly spoken to each other, a difficult and awkward thing to cope with when they were sharing living quarters. Milton couldn't say what it was that prevented him from apologizing or just talking to her like he normally did. Pride was something he had very little of, so that was not a contributing factor to his stubbornness. Maybe he was afraid that she would get the truth out of him one way or another since his poker face counted for naught. How could he tell her that he had struck a deal with Merle to keep her (and Daryl) safe at all costs? How could he explain to her that Phillip would hold her last if he got his hands on her and wait until Milton was within earshot to torture her? She would not take kindly to being the sole object of Milton's concern, even if it was the truth.

He could not confront what he felt for her anymore than he could confront her in the flesh. She was still very much a stranger to him in so many ways, yet those did not matter now, did they? The petty details of their former lives carried no weight after everything they had been through together; all that mattered was the present. The only question was: how could he tell her all of this without pushing her farther away?

"You're blocking my light. Could you step out of the way until I finish?"

_Yes, excellent start, you blockhead._

If Andrea objected to this rocky conversation opener, she said nothing, but stepped aside anyway so Milton could get the last patch of unshaven skin. He patted his face dry, emptied the bowl down the toilet in the corner, and gathered up the supplies, resting them against his hip as he finally faced Andrea.

"Now, what did you want to talk to me about?"

She could have told him that he knew damn well what she wanted to talk to him about. It was evident enough in her face that she had little tolerance for his feigning ignorance, but she kept her tone civil as she gave him a response.

"Did I say or do something to make you suddenly hate me? You haven't spoken to me in two days and you won't meet my eye. You avoid being alone with me and leave the room if I walk in, so tell me, Milton, what the hell did I do to upset you?"

He might have once faltered under her penetrative gaze and stammered out an apology as his sweat glands suddenly opened up all over his body, but at the moment all he felt was a sense of weariness.

"You haven't done anything," he told her. "I just haven't trusted myself to be around you. I don't want you to get too attached to me, only to have something happen. We both had near misses this past week and I don't think that luck's going to hold out. No one, _no one_ gets lucky nowadays. In the highly likely event that I go down by biters or Phillip's men, I don't want my death compromising the safety of everyone here, so I'm trying to distance myself."

"Well, I can tell you you're failing right off the bat because Beth's been taken with you for a few days now. Hershel liked you immediately when you met and you've grown on Maggie, which means you've grown on Glenn. Carol and Carl don't have anything negative to say about you and Carl's downright grateful that you rescued Beth. Michonne never disliked you, and she's not one to show it either way, but I know she values your insight since she wants Phillip dead more than most of us. Rick's a hard case to convince, but he tolerates you and has accepted your uses. Daryl's a blank slate, which could mean anything, and Merle is Merle, so that means nothing. You can't distance yourself, Milton, not when you've already made connections with these people. Why are you so determined to shut us all out?"

"Because in case you haven't noticed, that's easy for me."

He hadn't meant to say it, but the buildup of unfairness and obliviousness on her part goaded him into speech. He had spent his whole life wishing that he could love people easily and show his affection, but his body and mind resisted him so that he could only display vague indifference at the best of times.

"I'm so disconnected from other people that it's just default for me now. I can't make myself care for anyone, so I've just given up and accepted this existence for what it is. This is how I function."

Milton tried to move past her, but she blocked the doorway, standing firm. "You need to stop using those kinds of terms for a start, and learn to speak like a human with a heart instead of a robot. I know you have one. And you can't tell me that you are completely disconnected from people because you still blush and stammer when someone touches you."

"Physical contact is a foreign concept to me."

Andrea reached out and rested her hand against his cheek and Milton tensed at her touch.

"You want to be touched," she said softly. "You want to be loved, but you don't know how to respond."

"It's not within my physical capabilities to reciprocate that type of affection."

"Milton—"

Her hand trailed towards his mouth, but he trapped her wrist and lowered it.

"Don't," he said firmly, but then in a gentler tone, "please don't. I don't know how to—I can't."

With the instruction of a mother leading her child by the hand, Andrea took Milton's and gave it a comforting squeeze. "If you let yourself, you'll figure out how. You need people to survive, so don't shut us out."

"The hell I know 'bout babies, huh? Don'tchoo—hey, not cool, bro, come back here, hey!"

Milton took advantage of Andrea's distraction and wriggled past her to lean over the railing and see Merle holding Judith by her diaper at arm's length in apparent terror. Andrea rushed down the steps and relieved him of his burden, scolding him for his careless attitude towards her. Milton was close behind, nervous that Merle might have dropped the baby if he had held onto her much longer.

"You can't dangle a baby like that, you idiot. She won't bite you."

"Not yet, but them gums might already be sharp 'nough," said Merle, backing away as Andrea advanced. "I'm the least qualified person here t'care for a baby anyhow, so don't blame me for Daryl dumpin' her on me. She wailed once and he went t'get her, but all've a sudden he's gotta take a piss—"

"Well, I'm on watch, so you get to hold her again," said Andrea, and without further warning she deposited Judith in the crook of Merle's arm.

"No, don't do that, now. Hey, _hey_!"

Andrea was already on her way out of the cellblock by the time Merle had secured a hold on Judith. Cursing, he spun on the spot and handed the baby off to Milton.

"Hot potato, you win and she's yours."

Milton tried to protest his "prize" but Merle already had a running head start on him. Never had Milton seen that man move so fast. Now stuck with Judith in his outstretched arms and quite unsure of what to do with her, he stared the infant in the eye, silently pleading with her to not start crying. Fully matured people were one thing to deal with, but Milton had never been in close proximity to a baby before and though he knew he was foolish for thinking it, he half expected something equivalent to a grenade exploding to happen as the seconds ticked by.

"You're holding her wrong."

The unexpected voice nearly made him jump through the ceiling. From the cell off to his left, he saw Beth sitting propped up on the lower bunk with her ankle still securely wrapped. She beckoned Milton to her and he obliged gratefully, but when he held out Judith for Beth to take, the young woman shook her head. Wincing slightly, she moved her leg so that Milton could sit down and then readjusted his hold on the baby.

"She needs to burp. Here, put this towel on your shoulder and then rest her head against it." Milton let Beth do most of the work and just made sure to keep his hold secure on the baby as Beth positioned Judith upright. The baby set her cheek on the towel Beth had draped over his shoulder and the small weight over his heart made Milton very much aware of his own thumping almost in unison. Judith gave a whimper, but it sounded to be more of content than discomfort and as Milton patted her back, his stress over his earlier conversation with Andrea seemed to dissipate.

"There, now. See, that's not so bad, is it?"

Milton didn't have the heart to disagree with her, but he still would have preferred it if she was holding Judith. Beth watched him for a while, smiling and occasionally rubbing Judith's head or wiping her mouth. Only when Milton noticed the absence of Judith's movement did Beth speak again.

"She's asleep. I'll take her now."

"I don't think that's the wisest decision now that she's finally nodded off," said Milton, paralyzed at the thought of handing the baby over only for her to erupt into screams of distress at being wakened.

"She'll be fine. You look like you're about to keel over and pass out anyway, so I'll take her until someone comes along to tuck her in."

"Are you going to be okay sitting here?"

"My daddy's in the cell next door and Carol's on the other side—once she gets back from that run with Glenn, that is. I'll be fine."

"Okay, if you're certain she won't wake up…"

Beth held out her arms expectantly and Milton lowered Judith into them, hardly daring to breathe in case it disturbed her. When his arms were free, he removed the towel from his shoulder and felt a surprise peck on his cheek as Beth kissed him.

"Sometimes that's how people say thank you."

Did she know what he and Andrea had discussed not even an hour ago? Did she suspect that he had trouble being around people? Did Merle let the cat out of the bag concerning his disorder? Or did Hershel just observe and pass on the knowledge to his daughter? Andrea had even said that Beth had developed a small amount of affection for him, so perhaps she felt that it was her duty to make him more comfortable around people.

It was rather strange, now that he thought about it, how the outbreak had brought out the deepest, most secret emotions in some people while completely desensitizing others. The people in this prison cared for and relied on each other more than even the folks at Woodbury because the people here had _survived_ together, been through hell and back. Woodbury consisted of people from everywhere, trying to ignore what went on beyond the walls and pretending like danger did not exist. But in the end, they would turn on one another. Andrea's friends were not quick to trust, but when they did, they held on to the people they let in. This was a family.

A very foreign concept to Milton.


End file.
